The Hollow Men
by PoetTraveler
Summary: How far did he have to run before he could return home?  Preseries.
1. The Eyes Are Not Here

A/N - Hey all, I'm back...

This story's a bit different. Takes place pre-canon, back in Don's Fugitive Recovery days. I was watching my S3 dvd's and was struck when Liz and Colby were talking about Don back when he was her tactical instructor. It got me thinking about why he left FR and how things could have gone so hinky in Albuquerque.

I suppose it could also be a story to figure out how Don became as dark as he has, especially since "In Security," (which will be henceforth known as "the episode that shall not be named" or TETSNBN for short) with the mention of the black mark.

This has been quite the job. I've been rewatching my Numb3rs dvds, and let me tell you... Research has never been so... captivating before. There hasn't ever been mention where Don was living while he was in FR (unless I was drooling and distracted if Don ever mentioned it, which is very possible especially if it happened during Tabu), so I randomly chose the Chicago office because I like to go there (to the city and not the actual FBI) on weekend trips, even though the traffic sucks. (And sort of gives me the advantage of writing locales I somewhat know.)

Please let me know what you think!

* * *

"_**Are you going back to man hunting now?"**_

_**"Oh, I see. Dad, come on. Don't. This is one case."**_

_**"I seem to recall your saying that about only one case once before. But if you remember, they were not good days for you or for me. I mean, we didn't see hear from you for weeks. We didn't even know where the hell you were."**_

_**"Dad..."**_

_**"You do realize, chasing after someone you could be running away from yourself at the same time."**_

_-Alan Eppes (Judd Hirsch) to Don Eppes (Rob Morrow). Man Hunt, Numb3rs Season One._

* * *

**September 14, 1998**

**Southwest of Ely, Minnesota. **

**Thirty miles south of the US - Canadian Border.**

oOo

"I don't know, Eppes…" the voice drawled over the radio. "You look kinda cute up there."

"Yeah, yeah…" Don shifted his position, straw stuck stubbornly to his jacket, breaching his collar down his back, "Next time you get the crappy seat."

He let out a breath, the air fogging in the cool September air, only made colder by the northern latitude. Zipping up the jacket to under his chin didn't really help, but it made him feel a little better. He could almost say that he didn't quite believe that Coop had talked him into perching in the loft, but it had happened before.

_And as surely as Lucy lifted the football before Charlie Brown could ever kick it, it would happen again, _he thought wryly. Theirs was a nearly equal partnership, nearly equal in experience and time on the field.

Still, it didn't stop Billy Cooper from pulling rank every now and again.

There was a full harvest moon spilling out over Minnesotan corn fields, the dried stalks rustling in the wind causing him to look deeper. There was no guarantee that their quarry would come tonight. He hadn't the night before or the night before that.

The anticipation had the agent on edge.

The old farm had come up in an extensive background search. Three days of leads and a long ago forgotten summer home of a felon's ex-girlfriend popped up on the radar. It had been a long chase up from the charm school down in Joliet.

Don rubbed his hands together, the thick fingerless gloves offering some warmth. The cabin had been long since abandoned and from his ringside seat in the haymow, could watch the drive as well as the front door. Coop covered the back.

He clicked the radio twice on instinct when he saw an unnatural and slightly human shadow slinking down the road. The night vision goggles were freakin' ugly, he thought. But they picked up an indeterminate limp that corresponded with the police report and clothes that fell short of wrists and ankles on the six two frame.

"Got him," Don whispered into his jacket sleeve. "Heading southwest along the fence line. He's alone, can't see any weapon."

"Roger that," Billy responded. "Working my way over now."

Don crept away from the window, the glass long since gone and shudders hanging precariously in the wind. He stepped across the floor, sketchy wood, too far gone to be reliable. The squeaks were avoided as he hoisted himself down the ladder and to the half open, ground level door.

"Target sighted. Approaching from the northeast."

Don knew the general direction Coop was coming from, mentally mapped the route in his mind, "Copy that."

He pressed himself up against the small granary room that ran along side the ladder. The moonlight filtered through the gaps and slats, years taking toll as the barn went from something that had protected to being something in need of that protection.

A draft from overhead pushed cool air down on him, urging him to move, but the need to stay was stronger as he watched a shadow melt into another and then the tall form slip in as an old pulley system creaked as he pushed open the door.

The radio clicked another three times. _Target in sight, too close to make verbal contact._ Don knew the man was unarmed, knew that for now, at least, had no weapon in hand. There were a lot of spare parts and two by fours lying around. He shuddered a little at the remembrance of a nasty reel of barbed wire.

_Time to get the show on the road. _

The convict had moved far enough inward so that there were no ready escapes. Don positioned himself between the open door and the man, raised his gun, "FBI. Put your hands up."

The calm, almost bored monotone startled him. The shadow man whipped himself around, raising hands that were somewhere between defense and surrender, "Who the hell are you?"

"FBI." Don took a step closer, "Fugitive Recovery." He took another step, "I said get your hands up and get on your knees."

The man complied, lowering himself and opening the near fists to near perfect jazz hands, shaking like some bad sort of pantomime. Don grabbed the left wrist and caught a whiff of fetid breath and rotten wood, "Do you ever brush your teeth?"

The man growled, his face heavily stubbled, difficult to discern the grime and soot from the dark facial hair. He hadn't an easy trip to Minnesota, "Sorry if that offends you, _Agent_," he hissed. "I've been a little busy this past week."

"Hey, I'm all about getting up close and personal, but I don't think you're exactly my type," Don pulled his other wrist, moved it towards the cuffs. He could hear footsteps behind him, steadily growing louder over the breeze.

"Started the party without me, Eppes?" Billy's tone was light, almost jovial. His flashlight glinted off the silver cuffs as Don finished closing them.

"Coop. I think we scared him. Don't think he was expecting any visitors tonight." Don dragged the man up to his feet, Coop shoved the gun in his holster and flashlight to his belt, taking the man's other side.

"See, now my mom always taught me that it was polite to keep the door open and the light on just in case," Billy's gruff voice explained.

In a quick flash of one last try, Custer's Last Stand and the Alamo, the man made an effort to pull himself from Cooper, catching his elbow on Don's face, only to be slammed up against the hewn lumber and wrestled down to the floor, "Don't go now. The night's still young."

Don cursed as he tasted a familiar salty flavor in his mouth, "Son of a bitch…"

Coop gave him a worried look, one that said to man up and give him a hand if he could, still had the man pinned to the floor, "Okay, Eppes?"

"Yeah," he flexed his jaw, his words ever so mushy. "Not too bad." He touched his hand to his mouth, his fingers sticky and wet. He rolled over from his back and pulled himself back up on his feet.

It was just a split lip but he was pissed.

He wiped his hand on his jeans and then nudged Billy's shoulder before his partner made another point with the prisoner again.

The man's nose was bleeding but neither of them did anything about it. The two partners walked on either side of their prisoner, hands firmly holding on to his arms as they dragged him to the waiting SUV. Don clapped him on the back as they pushed the fighting man into the back seat, "I was thinking a nice dinner, maybe a bag of ice right about now. What you thinkin', Coop?"

The agent took a peek in the rearview mirror at the scowling man and then back again at Don, "I'm thinking it's about time we get Mr. Nevis home. He's got some people who are real eager to see him again. Isn't that right, Mr. Nevis?" Cooper said his name in that tone, the kind a junior high student uses with a teacher they didn't really like, didn't really respect, so silently mocked instead.

The man swore and Coop told him to shut up. He started up the car and Don radioed in their catch. They would drive the four and a half or so hours south to the Minneapolis field office to drop Nevis off. Then in another day or so, back home to Chicago for a couple of days off.

Something hit his seat, Don turned around fuming when he saw the kicking feet, "The nice man said shut up! Now if you don't be quiet, _Mr. Nevis_." Don could do surly teen as well. "The ride back is going to be a lot less pleasant for you that it could be."

Don had perfected a dangerous voice over the last year, one that said almost exactly what his vocabulary couldn't. He looked back at the man behind the wire frame that kept returning fugitives from planning mutiny and takeover. Nevis silenced, though his eyes were equally dangerous.

Don pursed his lips and kept his eyes on the rearview mirror. The time on the clock read just past one or so in the morning.

_Happy freakin' Birthday to me..._

oOo

He threw his keys on the table by the door, alongside the mail that had collected while he'd be away. The midday sun came through the windows, leaving diagonal streaks and smudges resembling a distorted fire escape across the wall and beige carpet. The apartment wasn't much of a mess for the sole reason that there wasn't a lot there.

The building was seven stories and a hundred years old, or so his landlord claimed. He lived on the sixth floor, stuck halfway in something between a studio and a one-bedroom with brick walls, even more bricks arranged in arches over the windows with the bed hidden behind a half wall. He liked the character and his neighbors claimed there were ghosts that haunted the old once-factory, over-worked and under-paid immigrants that died in something like Upton Sinclair's Jungle.

The duffle bag fell to the floor next to where he kicked off his shoes. The jacket hung off the hook by the door, still swaying as he fell back on to the couch. Don could see the steady red flashing light, the answering machine teasing him, curiosity thick enough to push the button, not nearly enough to return calls.

_"Donnie, its your mother. I hope you're having a wonderful birthday."_

"_Bonsoir Don, its Gisella…"_

"_Don, it's your dad here. Wondering if you were…"_

"_Mr. Eppes, calling about an overdue movie…"_

"_Hey Don, will you be able to make it home for Thanksgiving? Charlie will be home…"_

"_Agent Eppes, this is Nicole from Human Resources in regards…"_

The remotes were in easy reach and he flipped through the channels, letting it finally land on ESPN. Sosa had beat Roger Maris's home-run record on Sunday, hitting number sixty-one and sixty-two off the Brewers. Chicago had been ecstatic, the fans at Wrigley off the charts. Coming back to the city a few days after the fact left him with the feeling that he had walked in on the aftermath of a party someone forgot to invite him to.

_After all, he had left that particular dance…_

Don pulled himself off the couch and to the kitchen, the two microbrews the only thing worth attention in the refrigerator. The door tried to shut and only did once Don kicked it fully closed. There would be always time to discuss that with his landlord later. He popped off the cap, held the cold glass to his bruised mouth and crossed back to the living room, back onto the sofa.

The Louisville Slugger was propped up in the corner near the tv. He turned his eyes from there to the gun resting on the coffee table and then back again. He tilted the drink towards the television and then to the bat, took a long draught and let himself fall against the cushions, the sounds of the city echoing 'cross the busy streets and a familiar sportscaster running through the day's scores.

The phone rang, quietly and a bit obtrusively. He checked the phone still on his belt, so it wasn't work, wasn't another assignment.

There was always time to call whomever back anyways.

_"Don, it's your dad. Just wondering where you're at. Hope you're alright. Sorry we didn't catch you on your birthday. Hope it was a good one…"_

He turned the tv up a little louder.


	2. This Broken Jaw of our Lost Kingdoms

A/N – Hey all, thank you so much for the reviews. I love to hear from you all. I hope you enjoy this next chapter and that your Thanksgiving was a happy one!

Read On...

* * *

"_**Together again?"**_

_**"Wouldn't miss it."**_

_**"How we doin'?"**_

_**"Same as always."**_

_**"That bad, huh?"**_

_Han Solo (Harrison Ford) to Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill). Return of the Jedi, 1983._

* * *

**September 16, 1998**

**Chicago, Illinois**

**FBI Field Office, Roosevelt Road**

oOo

He hated insurance.

Oh, it was nice to have. Nice to know that when (never _if_ in his profession) he got hurt, it'd be covered. And if he died (hopefully the _when_ would be in another fifty years or so), that'd be covered too.

Don shuffled through the paperwork, the annual sign-up _campaign_ Nicole had called it. And if he didn't fill it out soon, well then better luck next year.

And don't let the door hit you on the way out.

He had been out of the office the last three weeks tracking, ironically taking Human Resources nearly that long to hunt him down as well. Yet like he and Coop had eventually caught up to Nevis, HR and Nicole had caught up to him.

When he pushed the glass door open to the small reception area, she gave him a half-smile, one that said she was about excited about paperwork as he was, and a clipboard full of forms, "Agent Eppes, if you could fill out if you've any dependents and designate a beneficiary, everything's changed since last year..."

The first part was simple enough. No, he didn't smoke. No, he had no need of spousal or child coverage. Yes, the basic dental plan would work. (He'd had his wisdom teeth out years ago.) And the basic AD&D and basic life coverages would work as well.

This all left him with one problem.

Don stared at the blank. Either he was going cross-eyed or the lines were just blurring together. Laser eyes would be handy about now, he thought. He'd just destroy the form and forget all about it. He really didn't need one anyway, did he?

Nicole looked up over her reading glasses, heavy blue frames that should have looked quirky, but only ended up looking silly on the older woman. Her eyes lingered on the deep purple bruise. He ducked his head and made a show of flipping through the pages, the pen tucked up on his ear.

_Damn beneficiary._

He didn't have a wife or any kids, so that easy out wasn't an option. He could always go with Billy. But then if he was dead, Coop would probably be dead right along with him. His brother, Charlie, sure as hell didn't need the money what with scholarships, grants and the tenured positions he'd been offered.

Not that he'd give it to him anyways.

And his dad wouldn't take it, not a government settlement he would see it as. Don's mind flitted back the three and a half years when he broke it to his family that he was heading off for Quantico. Chernobyl had a cleaner fall-out.

He shook his head. No, there was no way in hell that Alan Eppes would fill in that blank.

Don sighed. This wasn't suppose to be a difficult thing. And by the look on Nicole's face, she didn't think so either. There was no serious significant other... Don bit the inside of his lip, scribbled his mother's name down and his childhood address.

Mom could always take that trip to Austria she'd been talking about a few years back.

He crossed his fingers as he handed the clipboard to the woman on the other side of the counter and hoped his deliberations were all for naught.

oOo

Don caught the elevator in the foyer, his jeans and sweater looking a little out of place among all the suits. There were two other men and a woman all chatting and exchanging pleasantries as the lift jolted upward. He gave a quick smile, one that acknowledged they were there. But he didn't know them and quite frankly, wasn't up for conversation.

There were whole floors of FBI personnel at the Chicago office he didn't know. Wasn't from a lack of trying. He was just never around, what with being in one corner of the US or the other.

The woman and the man in the gray flannel suit exited on the third floor, the man's counterpart left on the fourth. Don hit the floor button again, the doors closing before anyone else could make their way on. He took a couple of steps back, keeping balance with his arms spread wide and holding on the bar behind him. A picture of nonchalance.

He let his eyes close and tipped his head back till it hit the cool buffered-steel panel. The insurance papers made a wrinkling noise as he unconsciously clutched them in his hand, then opened his eyes and tried to smooth out what he had already done. There was a ding and the doors slid open. Don brushed by the people who were waiting to board, an analyst he recognized and a few Chicago PD uniforms.

He kept walking straight away from the... Well, he really couldn't call them crowds, they were too small, and groupings sounded rather silly. Don pushed through frosted glass office doors and ended up by the large windows that were really more like glass walls. They overlooked the FBI Plaza and Roosevelt Road. He liked the view from here. Lake Michigan was about two and a half miles due east, a bit south of Navy Pier. Slightly closer was the University of Illinois and around the corner from there was Rush University Medical Center.

The lobby on the seventh floor was airy with granite floors. There were echo-y clacky sounds as people swiftly crossed the tiles from one room to another. In times like this, he felt like an observer, a ghost watching humanity from some other place.

He dropped to the low-lying couch, propped his feet up on the coffee table as he gave a quick tip of the head to the secretary who noticed his entrance. She picked up the phone on her desk and murmured something he imagined was along the lines of announcing his arrival.

The idea struck him as absurd. It was Mrs. Eppes other boy who had his name read off like the Windors or the freakin' Romanovs. It was the other son who was famous for his work.

Illinois wasn't England and the Chicago division building was no where close to the Winter Palace or the Tower of London.

And it was just fine with him that the Windy City was a long way from California.

oOo

"Good to see you made it back in one piece."

The fading sunlight backlit the man standing near the window. He was tall, not so much thin as wiry. The sports jacket flapped open as he stuck his hands in his pockets, his head turned from the two agents on the other side of the desk.

Warren Bonheur gripped the top of the chair, his fingers pressing deeply into the black leather, "Heard a funny story. Someone was complaining the prisoner came back looking a little worse for wear. "

The chair pulled out suddenly, Don held back a flinch, "The man was bound to be a little bruised after being on the run. See that he got you pretty good, Eppes." The grayish-brown hair fell in his eyes, the reading glasses propped on his head failing to keep it back. "I said my guys are nothing but professional."

Bonheur leaned forward, hands braced on the tabletop, "You guys are not going to make me look bad. You are not going to make yourselves look bad. Understand?"

Billy Cooper's feet were crossed at the ankles, his hands silently tapping against the armrests. His voice was calm and his tone was flat, "He resisted. Elbowed Don in the face. I took him down."

"This true, Eppes?" Their supervisor took a seat, his elbows rested on scattered manila folders.

Don shifted under the gaze and then returned it, "Yes."

Bonheur raised an eyebrow, "That's what I thought." He pulled a pen from a drawer and signed a few papers, "I want the both of you to take a few days. Cool off, get your feet under you. Hell, find a pretty girl. I don't care."

The tension was thick, the quiet punctuated by a telephone ring. Bonheur answered and said he'd call back. He motioned for the two men to hand him the folders in their hands, "Your reports?"

They exchanged hands without another word. Billy Cooper stood up at the unofficial nod to leave. "Anything else?" he asked dryly.

Warren shook his head, then motioned for Don to stay. Bonheur waited a beat after the door closed, "Are you doing alright, Eppes?"

Don gave a slight frown, not exactly sure of where this conversation was headed, "I'm doing fine."

The older man nodded, "Of course you are." The pen hit the top of the mahogany evenly, steadily, "How long have you and Cooper been paired up? What, nearly two years now?"

"Yes, sir." It had been almost exactly two years. Before that he had spent time training in Quantico, then sub-specializing in fugitive recovery. At first, Don had been paired up with Steven Zane, nearly an FR legend in his own time. But that was short-lived, Zane never paired up with anyone for long. Don was just proud he made it the six months that he did with the man.

Warren looked thoughtful, calculating. Don knew he knew what had happened. He knew he was unofficially being called on it. No doubt Cooper had his own one-on-one before Don had arrived.

"You two were paired up for a reason, Eppes. You and Billy make a good team. You're smart, the even-headed one of the pair." The tapping stopped, "You're_ suppose_ to be the even-headed one. I'm not telling you to babysit. But I'm telling you, Eppes, once you start making compromises, its hard to go back."

The phone rang again, this time Warren said he'd take the call. Don was waved off, dismissed with hardly a slap on the wrist. Just as he pulled at the door knob, Bonheur stopped him, "You're a promising agent with a good career, Don. You can go a long way. Just don't screw it up."

The door was nearly shut when he heard, "And put some goddamn ice on your face."

oOo

The lights were pulsing and Lauryn Hill provided backdrop. Blue cigarette smoke haloed around the dance floor and the air was thick with sweat and alcohol. The club was small and on a second-story in Old Town not far from Eugenie Square. It wasn't his usual haunt, something Billy's girl of the week had suggested.

Hillary Mendoza was dangerous with light cocoa skin and a rose tattoo on her right shoulder. She hung off Coop's neck like some exotic python, tempting as that first forbidden fruit. She stood with the grace of a ballerina. If only ballerinas wore pleather and high heeled boots.

The odd pair had somehow lasted over a month.

She waved him over with her martini. Don thought the drink looked strange in her hands, thought something involving Everclear and Bacardi, a drink as flammable as she, would be more appropriate.

He pushed through the crowd, making his way toward the half-level, Gisella Laurent from the apartment a floor below holding onto his arm, looking out of place in her gray turtle-neck sweater and knee-length denim skirt. She was sweet, smelled like sandalwood and read Paul Verlaine and all the Decadents. He felt guilty for bringing her there.

"There he is. There's the birthday boy," Coop weaved his way over to them, clapping him heavily across the back. "Good to see you made it, man." It was only a little after ten and his breath was already heavy with hops.

"Took us a while to find the place."

As they followed him to the table, Don could feel Gisella squeeze his arm just a little bit tighter as his partner leaned in to kiss her on the cheek.

The guilt squeezed a little stronger.

Gisella wasn't that kind of girl and he wasn't that kind of guy. Or at least he didn't use to be. This was something he wasn't too sure of anymore. Don looked from Gisella to Hillary. Billy was busy hailing down a waitress for another round.

_Everclear and a delicate Alsace Pinot Blanc..._

He went with a beer, Gisella ordered a margarita and Hillary told him he should start working through his twenty-eight birthday shots before too much longer. He said he would if he had a death wish and if alcohol poisoning was the way he wanted to go.

A hail of bullets seemed more appropriate…

The club wasn't nearly full. It was a Wednesday night, a few college students and even more yuppie professionals kept time on the dance floor. Don let his eyes linger on exits, the more likely escape routes and then shook his head to the present as he drained the bottle.

_He needed a vacation… _Somewhere quiet, he thought. Maybe tropical, maybe not. Warm weather with mountains or a beach, a pretty girl, he'd be happy.

"Bonheur give you the talk, man?"

Don leaned back against the padded booth, Hillary drilled his date on proper shot pouring technique, espresso and not tequila. Gisella's hair brushed against his shirt, a deep green collared button up. Leaving it untucked left him almost looking like he belonged there at that table with Hillary and Billy.

Not Gisella though. Never Gisella.

She was nice with rich blue eyes and dark brown hair and worked as a barista down the street and came from France for her Master's in literature and philosophy. He met her over dryer sheets and a time-shared gallon of Tide. She flirted with him and he with her, both knowing the other wasn't serious, wasn't looking for anything involving gold rings and promises of forever.

He was never around more than a couple of days here and there anyways.

_Just enough time for paisley-print Egyptian cotton sheets…_

"Said to keep myself in check."

It had been years since Don had taken a seat in the principal's office, his parents less than pleased that he'd ever spent time in there at all. Somehow he had gone back there this afternoon.

He wouldn't be going back there again.

The music changed from shattering to acoustic and familiar. Don sighed as Hillary pulled herself from under Coop's arm, "I have a birthday present for you…" Her tone was seductive and flirtatious. She stood and held her hand out to him, pulling him up from the bench and out to the dance floor. _Iris_ was playing. The only alternative acceptable to _Titanic _and Celine Dion.

He looked back to his partner and his date. They were both engrossed in conversation. Gisella's head fell back in laughter at something Billy said, her hand touching his arm as she toyed with her drink.

Hillary pulled him close, the only way she would ever dance. Her hands slid down his back, he stopped them before they went too low. Instead she nuzzled her lips on his neck, tracing his swollen lip with her fingers and then kissed him, the cut stinging and his conscious screaming.

"Happy Birthday, Don," she whispered in his ear.


	3. Under the Twinkle of a Fading Star

A/N - Hey all! Thank you so much for reviewing and putting this story on alert. Well, here's the next chapter. I hope you enjoy it. It turns out that a great motivation to write is simply getting snowed in for the weekend with not too much else to do!

* * *

"_**You speak French?"**_

"_**There was a girl, once upon a time…"**_

_David Sinclair (Alimi Ballard) to Don Eppes (Rob Morrow). Provenance, Numb3rs Season Three._

* * *

**September 19, 1998**

**Chicago, Illinois **

**A Fifth Floor Studio**

oOo

He appreciated the heavy smell of roasted chicken and _petits pâtés a la sage_ as he propped the window open and stepped out onto the fire escape, brushing furiously at the flour on his jeans, "Yeah, Mom we got back a couple of days ago. Ended up near the Boundary Waters." 

"_I'm glad to hear it went alright, Don."_ Her tone was softly teasing_, "I wouldn't complain if you would have called a little sooner though."_

It was early evening in the city, sunlight was traded for street lamps. He could hear the television drifting up from the floor below, "Sorry about that." Lights on in the building next door flipped on as he watched a kid toss a skateboard in his bed, "You know how it goes."

"_With you disappearing? Yes I do know_," Margaret sounded slightly exasperated, mostly understanding. _"So were you able to do anything fun for your birthday?"_

Don raised his brows a bit. _What, the part where he sat in a barn for seven hours or the part where he had to ride back in the truck with less than sweet company? _

"Nothing too big on Monday. Gisella wanted to make dinner for me tonight though, since we were both out of town."

"_You've been seeing a lot of this girl, Donnie?"_

He could picture his Mom sitting out on the back steps, Dad wouldn't be home from work yet and she'd be gardening or taking a break from one of her_ pro bono_ cases.

"Often enough," he answered. "She's been busy with school and I've been out of town a lot lately. But I'm supposed to have a few days off so we might head off to the Pier tomorrow. Do a few touristy things that she hasn't seen yet."

"_Good for you. I'm glad you're having fun."_

Margaret balanced the cordless between her shoulder and her ear as she shoved a stack of papers back in her briefcase, "I've got a case going on now that you might find interesting, an inheritance sort of gone awry."

"_How's that?"_

She could hear the distraction in the question, "This very nice, very old, supposedly very poor man shocks the community center with half-million dollar inheritance. His children were less than impressed."

"_Community center isn't a code word for your purse…?"_

"Did I ever tell you that you're cute when you think you're funny?" She sighed as she stuck the black satchel next to the piano.

"_You okay, Ma?"_

"Mostly,"The table needed to be cleared next, or at least half of it for dinner. "Your father left his plans for this condo development he's working in the dining room here. I'm trying to see if we still have a table under here."

"_You could always try hiding them on him. Teach him a lesson that way."_

She pulled a chair out, the one that faced the living room nearest the kitchen door, resting her elbows on the one-dimensional mezzanine, "Is that what happened to those case files a few years back."

"_I plead the fifth," _She could hear a few whispers in the background, then an _'I'll be there in a minute.'_

The driveway was still empty, Alan was late and was going to miss his only chance this month to talk to his son._ "Hey look, Mom, I gotta go…" _

Standing at the window wouldn't make her husband come home any quicker, but she thought maybe if the conversation could last a few minutes more… "You think you might be able to come home for Thanksgiving?"

"_Maybe, Ma… Hey, Giselle, give me a second here."_ There was something that sounded like a crash and a smothered laugh, _"How 'bout I call you later?"_

Margaret knew he would call later, Don always did. It might be closer to a few weeks than the next day though, "Take care, hon. Love you"

"_Love you too, Mom."_

She sighed as she walked back towards the living room, putting the handset back on the receiver, "Well, at least we know you're still alive."

oOo

The window across from the bed was cracked open, a sliver of cold exhaust intermingled with the air of jasmine and warm bodies. The duvet lay half on the floor, hiding deep purple silk and black kitten heels.

A bottle of genuine _Cabernet Franc_ was half empty and left open on the table. Two glasses, one smudged with _Bitten Plum_, still had drops of the pale red that tasted like raspberries and cassis. A melted birthday candle lay discarded by equally forgotten cupcake papers.

Lavender and gray Egyptian cotton wove around legs equally tangled, arms rested akimbo as two tousled heads coveted one pillow. A calloused right hand reached over to the night stand as the cell vibrated against the Ikea veneer. The alarm read a little after four.

Gisella's hair tangled in his fingers as he slid off the bed and into the bathroom. He pulled on his boxers one-handed as he rested the phone between his neck and ear, "Eppes," he muttered. _This better be good. _He wasn't happy, was hoping for the entire birthday dinner date to end something closer to Nora Roberts than James Patterson, with perhaps some slow breakfast in bed and later walk along the Lake.

"_Eppes, it's Warren. I've got an assignment for you guys."_

His attention was half on the tinny voice on the line, half on the slender form in the bed. The street lamp filtered through gauzy curtains highlighting long arms that looked incredibly inviting, "Wait a minute. What happened to take a couple of days, find a pretty girl?"

"_Look Don, I know what I told you guys and yes, you've earned it. But here's the story, we've got a guy on the loose who just killed an undercover, shot his wife and kidnapped his daughter."_

He sank down on the cool ceramic tub, toeing the door closed, "Hate to break it to you, but hostage negotiation isn't my specialty."

In a tone that brokered no arguments, Bonheur replied, _"You and Billy are the best trackers I've got."_

His head hung down, his thumb and forefinger massaging the bridge of his nose, "You think flattery's going to get you somewhere? You never call us out on stuff like this. You know the kid or something?"

"_She's ten, Don. She's my sister's little girl." _

There was a long silence on both ends of the line, "Where do we need to be?"

The call ended before he could be the first to hang up. Don wanted to throw the phone, break it in a million plastic pieces. Gisella wouldn't appreciate that though. Neither would his boss.

He let out a breath as he crossed the floor. He knelt close to Gisella, "_Petite amie_… Have to go to work."

She mumbled out an "_à plus tard"_ and turned her head the other way. Don brushed at her hair that smelled like those purple petals that flooded the Pasadena street ways in the summer. If he didn't go now, he never would. A faint smile turned her lips as he kissed her, "See you later, 'Sella."

His blue t-shirt had landed on a golden colored wing back after a magnificent overhand toss, the kind that gets a player boosted to the majors from Triple A ball. The jeans had knocked over a lamp, leaving the shade cock-eyed and unsure. He slipped his legs through and picked up his shoes as he slipped out the door.

_A deserted island_, he decided. _A deserted island with no phones, Gisella in a French one-piece and a Corona on the side. _

oOo

The coffee was closer to paint remover and the office resembled something from a trailer park, what with the beige cinderblock and dated laminate floors. A short-ish man, five eight or so, with a Kirk Douglas chin and in a brown sheriff's uniform paced in front of a wooden table looking thirty years out of style.

It was early still, not even quite seven in the morning. The room was crowded though, several other officers: sheriffs, detectives and agents made the main conference area of the Winnebago County Sheriff's office seem several sizes too small.

Rockford, Illinois lay directly west by a couple of hours from Chicago. There wasn't much there to be proud of: the Greater Rockford Airport, Woodward Governor. There use to be elm trees, but most were blighted by Dutch Elm years ago. There were a few factories, most of them dead or dying, leaving folks unemployed with nothing to do. So that left the crime rate high, murders not uncommon.

_If you give a mouse a cookie…_

Don pressed himself between the wall and a nondescript file cabinet, the styrofoam leaking heat to his hands. Billy Cooper stood on the other side of the beige monstrosity, his elbow propped up and hand leaning against his head, looking half-asleep and hardly aware. Don knew better though as a size twelve found its way in front of a narco cop's foot.

The man tripped and sheepishly apologized to the FR agent. "Don't worry about it," Billy said, his eyes looking innocent and just ever so slightly amused. The look was familiar, was there after an almost good-natured hazing involving a not-quite frozen lake and a baby doll that looked strangely real. And another time after his overnight bag never made it or possibly disappeared from the Agency's SUV.

Don always returned in kind.

Theirs was a give-and-take partnership. Coop gave him crap and Don threw it right back. He was on the road again, maybe not with a baseball team this time. But it was a rush, Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty would've been proud. Or some said that maybe they were closer to Hall and Oates if only Don would grow a moustache.

He wondered that maybe if Charlie wasn't in London, _or Boston, maybe it was Cambridge, Mass now... _If Charlie was just a normal younger brother, one who didn't play games of 'prime or not prime' for fun, who didn't graduate from high school early or go to Princeton at thirteen…

Maybe they'd have the same sort of relationship.

Or at least be able to talk on the phone…

The coffee swirled clockwise and Don was mesmerized by the little drops that splashed over the side, jumping ship like Molly Brown. The drops turned to waves as the file cabinet tilted toward the starboard side, taking Don's elbow along with it.

Billy abruptly eased the cabinet back down to completely touch the floor. The air changed in the room, from a rushing into place to order and attention. A middle-aged man, dressed in Sears and Roebuck, stood next to the Kirk Douglas sheriff. They motioned to a deputy by the doorway to turn down the lights. The white screen behind them lit up, a Power Point presentation flashed and then started as the Cheap Suit moved the mouse next to the laptop.

A secretary in a burgundy corduroy pantsuit passed Don a basket of muffins that was making its way around the briefing. He took an apple streusel and passed it onto Billy. He was beginning to wonder if the session was ever going to start when the sheriff cleared his throat.

The man shifted from side to side, he looked tired and something very close to sad. "Thank you for coming out on short notice," he said. "I'm not going to beat around the bush…"

Billy snorted and Don choked on his coffee. An angry looking man with dark eyes and a near afro stared down at them from the screen. Evidence that the waiting perhaps was finally over, that Spartacus was telling the truth.

"Meet Devon Germaine, local scumbag and up until recently, solely dealt in the largest drug ring here in Rockford." The sheriff, a W. Booth, from what Don could make of the name tag, resumed his nervous pacing.

"We've had an undercover surveillance going on him and his crew for the last three months. We made several arrests for dealing this past week, several of the key players in the gang. He made Detective Anderson last night, followed him home, shot him and his wife, then kidnapped his ten year old daughter."

The picture of Germaine was replaced with one of the girl. It was a school photo, the background a simple deep gray, only enhancing eyes greener than those on that one cover of National Geographic, "This is Krista Anderson..." Sheriff Booth stopped and sat down heavily on a chair at the head of the table. He waved to the man next to him to pick up where he left off.

His counterpart in cheap poly-cotton blend began passing a pile of papers around the room, motioning for each to take a copy, "We received a call last night that if we didn't lay off and release his men, he would kill Krista as well."

The apple streusel had lost its taste, the coffee even worse than it was before. Don swallowed hard as he looked at the long blonde braids that were more _Rebecca of Sunnybrook_ farm than _Rapunzel _and the purple shirt with small pink horses galloping across the front was a call to defend and protect.

_Innocence was incredibly fragile._

Victim photos were common enough, though it wasn't often that he was asked to help find one. Fugitive Recovery was more a sort of cleaning up, an after the fact, a post script.

Don sorted through the papers handed him, important stats and information on Germaine, Detective Anderson and his family. Krista resembled her father, more so than her mother.

Someone nearer the back said Janine Anderson was in recovery, still hanging on by a thread. He knew that Bonheur was waiting, watching over her at the ICU. He said that he trusted Don and Billy to be his eyes and ears at the meeting because right then he was needed as an older brother too watch out for his kid sister, to protected her from something more dangerous than schoolyard bullies.

The talk was winding down, the air electric like before the start of a race, horses pawing the ground, cars revving engines. Don could see the anticipation in Cooper's eyes, knew it reflected what was in his own. The checkered flag was waving high in the air and the pretty girl in the yellow polka-dot bikini was ready to bring it down.

Billy bumped Don's shoulder as they walked out of the conference room, "Let's haul this slimy ass in."

Don paused to take one last look at Krista, wanting much more than just bringing the bad guy in.

_And so the king's knights vindicated the honour of their fallen man and rescued the princess to bring her home to the castle where she lived almost happily ever after._


	4. In the Valley of Dying Stars

A/N – Hey all…

I'm so sorry I've taken such a long time to update. I'd love to offer a brilliant excuse like an exotic business trip or maybe a Tolstoyan family tragedy, but all I've got is a nasty cold and Rock Band.

Turns out I can sing Bon Jovi and OK Go like nobody's business, but The Clash and I are not friends.

Something to aspire to, right?

* * *

"_**You don't believe in the Force, do you?"**_

_**"Kid, I've flown from one side of this galaxy to the other, and I've seen a lot of strange stuff. But I've never seen anything to make me believe that there's one all-powerful Force controlling everything. There's no mystical energy field that controls my destiny."**_

_-Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill) to Han Solo (Harrison Ford). Star Wars: A New Hope, 1977._

* * *

**September 20, 1998**

**Rockford, Illinois**

**Three Blocks West of Kimberly-McMillan Park**

oOo

There was a marked difference between the Western and Eastern banks of the Rock River. It wasn't so much the geology of the soil or variance in the topography of the landscape. It was the steady degradation in housing and neighborhoods and an increase in crime that reached its peak on the occidental end of town that lent towards the Dickensonian atmosphere.

_It was the best of times. It was the worst of times..._

The neighborhood bordered by State and School roads wasn't much to look at. The homes were chic Victorian bungalows and cottages years ago, now sad shadows, yards filled with dead plants and broken toys. Proud white picket fences disappeared, only to be replaced with metal chain link and ominous 'beware of dog' signs.

The Kafkaesque landscape was finished with the steady drizzle of rain and tangled brown leaves that matted the cracked and uneven sidewalk. Don popped the collar of his jacket as he hunkered down further in his seat. This September was much colder than the others he had spent in the Midwest.

He tried to think, last September...

Last September, the first half anyways, was spent in Texas. The Austin area, yellow roses and perfect barbeque, living out of the SUV, a Mobile station and camping out under the stars. The weather was humid and warm, the worst days still registering in the low hundreds.

It was magnificent, playing at adult cowboys and indians, cops and robbers...

Their quarry never had a shot at crossing the Rio Grande.

When they finally returned home, Chicago was nearly perfect. The leaves were gold and Lake Michigan, somewhat clear. He had gone to a couple of baseball games, short sleeves if he remembered correctly. Only there was no Texan sweat or manic-depressive thermometers.

Don motioned for Billy to pass him the binoculars, scanning them over a deflated football onto the lawn, looking as if it narrowly landed in unpruned evergreens, "Home, sweet home."

Cooper had one leg rested up on the dash, the other, stretched out in front of him, "Not exactly what I'd call it," he said. "You think Germaine would take better care of her with all the money he's been hauling in."

An older model gray Nissan sat in the drive, looking entirely too appropriate and perhaps a bit too cliché. "Maybe profit margins were down…"

"Maybe he doesn't like his sister all that much," A DMV photo of a serious-faced woman with a wide forehead, deep set eyes and hair done in tiny cornrows and braids was paper-clipped to the front of a manila folder. "She's on welfare, has food stamps for the kids."

Neither of them had to voice that nearly everyone in this neighborhood was most likely on welfare. "There's no parental support listed, was there?"

The rustle of papers told Don what he couldn't see as he kept his eyes trained on the house, drumming his fingers against the armrest, "Three different dads, two are serving time and Number Three is holding out on a court order."

"She sure knows how to pick 'em." There was a rusty swing set that peaked out from behind the back of the house, the swing on the left sadly dangling by one chain, "Do you think Germaine hid it from her?"

Cooper pulled out a flattened package of gum from the glove compartment. He pulled a stick out at tossed it on Don's lap, "Wouldn't be impossible. Surveillance said he only came over a couple of times a week."

Don nodded his agreement, "Well, let's go see what she has to say." The seat belt clicked as it hit the door frame, almost in unison with the rustle of keys being slid into a pocket.

He looked uncertainly at the front door. Normally he would prefer to stake the house out for a longer time, look into Germaine's accomplices and associates. This time wasn't like the other times before.

_Little pink horses galloping across a purple sunset..._

The air was completely still, the rusty leaves were silent, fell without a whisper to the ground. His fingers were clammy and he felt out of sorts in a way that he hadn't since his days with trailing after Zane.

Steven was poor at verbalizing instructions, expected Don to pick up on nuances and instructions without pretense or preamble. It left him on edge, always watching, searching for a command to go, do something, to not disappoint his mentor.

_"Not going to hold your hand, Eppes," _he said. Zane would lead, and Don would follow. It was more Lone Ranger and Tonto, pushed him in a way he never expected. He nearly hated Zane at first, hated the cocky last name: one syllable full of pride and swagger. Hated that he could never quite anticipate where the older man was coming from.

Wasn't until month four, or maybe it was five, when suddenly, surprisingly, things clicked. Zane's signals and intent were plainer than English, they worked hand in glove, the right knowing what the left was doing, neither tied behind the back.

_"Number twenty-five comes up to bat, pulls his arm back and slams it out into left field. It's going... It's... Zane makes the catch, throws it in-field. The batter is heading towards second. The ball is picked up by Eppes, makes his way to second. Wait a minute, folks. The dust is up in the air, looks like both men have something at stake there. The ump is signaling an out! Zane and Eppes have done it again… Tell me, Jerry, have you ever seen anything like that?"_

_"To tell you the truth, Gary, no I haven't. Not in a long time. A beautifully executed catch and return."_

It was both exhilarating and amazingly reassuring when they took a man down without a word uttered between the two, choreographed like some Martha Graham ballet.

It was only a month or two later that he was taken off probation and assigned to work in a permanent team.

The front porch was small and a sick shade of mustard brown. It came off in flakes, sad and ugly, small imitators of autumn colors. Don kicked a red plastic bat out of his way to press the yellowed doorbell.

There was no expected echo heard so he rapped the doorframe, "Santianna Germaine, FBI. Open up please."

The partners both cocked their heads towards the house, Don closest to the door and Cooper nearest a window. There was a sound, not threatening though, was instead familiar from crowded dorm rooms and burnt popcorn, the Mario Brothers in all its electronic glory.

Don caught himself and leaned back as the door opened swiftly inward, "Santianna Germaine?"

The woman was small, hardly more than five three at a guess. The date on the photo was from seven years ago, looking closer to fifteen or maybe twenty with how cruel time had played her. There were deep set wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, long hair bound back in a plain ponytail, an old bathrobe layered over a faded Cubs t-shirt.

"Who wants to know?"

Billy pressed himself near the door's opening, propping his arm against the clapboard, his motions smooth and unconsciously automatic, flashing the badge that hung from the chain around his neck, "Agents Cooper and Eppes. We're with the FBI."

Turning back inside, Don could see over her shoulder, the three small boys huddled around a television, two sprawled with gray hand-helds and the other shouting advice. "Cool it boys," Santianna looked down unapologetically at her wardrobe and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind her. "And what do Agents Cooper and Eppes," she drawled. "Want with me?"

"When was the last time you saw your brother, Ms. Germaine?"

She pulled the robe closed as the chill worked up from her bare feet, "Not in a while." The agents stood on either side, neatly boxing her in, "Why do you care?"

"Ms. Germaine, are you aware of your brother's activities?"

"Said he finally got a job." She gave a shrug, her lower lip sticking out slightly, "know he's in some delivery service or something."

_Delivery service was right._

Don glanced over to Billy, then back at Santianna, "Ma'am, you do know that your brother has been involved in a drug ring for the past two years."

A car, a block or so down the street, sounded out a death rattle as it grew closer. Santianna followed it with her gaze as the black Caddy coasted down the street, stopping at the corner and turned left.

She shook her head rapidly, right hand covering her mouth as she leaned heavily against the door, "Said he was stocking soda machines. Never said nothing about any shady work."

"Where's Devon?" The woman turned to go back inside, Coop firmly planted his hand against the door, closing it as she cracked it slightly open, "We need to find your brother, Santianna."

"What'd he do?" Her tone was brittle, daring them to ask her any further questions, "He's good to my boys, the only uncle they have."

Don unzipped his jacket, pulled out a white envelope from the inner pocket, "Devon killed a detective last night, Ms. Germaine." Three photos fell into his hands, "He shot Detective Anderson and his wife and then kidnapped their daughter, Krista."

His monologue was cut off as she took the pictures from him, her long fingers tracing Krista's braids, water threatening to break from its dam, "No, no… Devon would never do that. Never." She thrust the photos back at Don, eyes blazing and temper flaring, "Get the hell off my property."

She made another go at the door, Billy not even giving her an inch this time around, "Devon's kidnapped a little girl, Ms. Germaine. A little girl who lost her daddy and whose mom might not even make it through the night."

Don stepped in closer, his turn to press at an unrelenting assault for something useful, "He's gonna kill her, Santianna. He called this morning and said he's going to kill Krista Anderson."

The partners edged in even closer, narrowing the woman's world between the sound of her boys and their video games and the photo of a girl she'd never seen before, "Where'd he go, Santianna? Where's Devon?"

The silence was broken with a pounding on the inside of the door. She glared at Billy who opened the door, revealing the younger boy who had been waiting his turn, "Momma, Ramone and Del ain't giving me a chance…"

She knelt down, gathered her son in her arms, "Hush now, Tyrese. Give Momma a second and I'll come in and you'll get your turn."

Tyrese wasn't much younger than Krista Anderson from what Don saw. He couldn't much more than eight, maybe nine. The boy looked suspiciously at the two agents, picking them apart with his eyes, holding his mother that much closer, "Love you, Momma."

"I know baby," She kissed him and then sent him back inside, head bowed and tear tracks dripping, wiping at them haphazardously. Clutching the door handle, it almost seemed she was trying to shield the two worlds that were rapidly separating from each other before her eyes.

"Devon, Santianna," Don coached. "Where is he?" She looked broken now, he thought. Broken and fragile as if the last thing she trusted had faded away.

"I don't know," she said. "Honestly, he never tells me where he's goin', what he's doing…" She trailed off, uncertain and a little scared. Her voice growing more strangled and hysterical, "Do you think he'll come after me? My babies?"

"Not going to happen," Billy leaned in and slid an arm around her shoulder. "We're gonna have people watching the house. He's not coming near you, Santianna."

She nodded, slower this time, wiped at her nose, her fingers sticky and shaking, "He did talk about this guy one time. A…" She pulled a used tissue from her pocket, nervously ran it across her face. "I think his name was Quinton, maybe Quenton. Said he knew him from work."

Don raised his eyebrows, "Did he ever say where he hung out with this guy? Anything at all, Santianna?"

"Tyson's, I think," she replied. "I think he said they hung out at Tyson's. Whatever the hell that is."

Don took a step back, there was nothing else she could give them, "Thank you, Ms. Germaine. You've been a big help." He felt almost guilty as he spoke with her, reassuring her that they'd send over someone to keep an eye on her.

They left the house more quickly than they had came, nearly running down the sidewalk. _They only had so much time to work with what they had._ Don watched as he saw Santianna crumple on the front porch as he pulled himself into the driver's seat.

It left him feeling that maybe all they had was a pyrrhic victory.

He tossed the envelope on the console, not catching it before it nosedived as he made a sudden turn. Then, a pair of green eyes stared at him from the floor.


	5. Eyes I dare not meet in Dreams

A/N - Hello all... I hope you had a lovely Christmas and have an even better New Year. (I can't complain, I'm headed up to Green Bay and the Brett Farve Steakhouse with the fam. Green and Gold all the way, baby!)

* * *

"_**How do you forgive yourself if you're wrong?"**_

"_**You don't. We can't be wrong."**_

_-Charlie Eppes (David Krumholtz) to Don Eppes (Rob Morrow). Vector, Numb3rs Season One._

* * *

**September 20, 1998**

**Rockford, Illinois**

**Winnebago Sheriff's Office**

oOo

It looked like any other police station: harried officers that ran to and fro under harsh fluorescent lighting, dirt seeped into corners that seemed to hold things more tightly than nails ever could. The token arrestee, a large Harley man, handcuffed to a bench, his sleeveless shirt disclosing telling scars and tattoos. One for mother in a red on his left bicep closest to his heart, maybe twisted and bloodied barbed wire around the other arm, maybe a naked girl with a snake around her neck peaking up from the torn wife-beater.

The faces didn't seem to change either: there was the wise old chief who stared out at his kingdom from behind glass, and occasionally, wooden doors. There was the prankster sergeant, the one whom everybody knew and most people liked. The gossipy secretary with the large pink hoop earrings, who knew more than she let on, guarded and passed on more secrets than were squirreled away under court sealed documents.

Don knew his place well enough, an outside investigator, a visitor who fell outside the normal pecking order, somewhere above bounty hunter and below court appointed public defenders, normally awarded with suspicion and backwards glances.

It wasn't the best system. Yet it worked and there was only so much reform could do after shattering the glass ceiling. After all, stereotypes were stereotypes and who wanted to be backward enough to admit that maybe they were real. So instead the positions were filled quietly, the actual people changing ever now and then.

He balanced a folder atop his coffee, in a dark blue travel mug. It had the FBI logo in silver on the front, something he got at graduation, almost as if to say: _here's what agents depend on for the rest of their careers._

The emblem had nearly worn off by now.

The path through the squad room was cleared by a young deputy, no more than twenty three. He looked a little like Ron Howard from _American Graffiti,_ innocent and squeaky clean_. His ears were practically dripping across the floor._ Don followed, half wondering if he had ever been so… new.

Deputy Griffen left them at a small desk in a dark corner of the room, the bathrooms were around the corner, the janitor's closet next door. Billy rolled his eyes at the set up, Griffen giving him a meek look that said that it really wasn't his idea. "Just let me know if I can help with_ anything_," he threw out as an olive branch.

"Any of those muffins from before?" Cooper asked.

The young man congenially shrugged his shoulders, "Let me see what I can find."

He took a few steps then turned back around, "Janine… She makes beef stroganoff on Tuesdays. Knitted the whole damn narco division hats last year for Christmas." The admission cost Griffen something. He fumbled with his pockets, looked up almost shyly, sadly, "Chris was real good with her, you know? Like some sort of happily-ever-after couple… And Krista… She's like their fairy princess..."

His eyes went flint gray, hard and determined. "They said you're the best," his confidence echoed in the corner. "Whatever you need," he repeated, sounding all the less Mayberry and more Maltese Falcon. "I'm here to help."

"You haven't heard of someone named Quenton, maybe Quinton, have you?"

"The sister mentioned that?" Both Billy and Don nodded. Opie jutted his chin out, crossed his arms. "No," he said slowly. "The name doesn't sound familiar. I can ask around though."

"Thanks, man," Don answered. He was unused to the unabashed admiration, not strong loyalty though. He clapped Griffen across the back, almost in benediction to leave, a thank you for his time. "We'll let you know."

"That was nice, Eppes. Real nice," Billy said as they watched him disappear down the corridor. "My mother would have said you'd make a good priest."

Don pulled out the chair, leaving Cooper standing, "Yeah, good and kosher."

Billy grabbed a gray office chair from a desk nearby and pulled it close as Don wove the mouse across the postage stamp decorated mouse pad. "You're about as kosher as I am," he snorted. "You're a goy with all the ham sandwiches you eat."

"You're a real _chutzpenik_, buddy," Don said, the Yiddish rolling off his tongue like water from Moses' rock in the desert on Sinai as he scanned Rockford's local criminal files headed under Q, first names and last. It wasn't a long list. Then again, Q wasn't a terribly popular letter.

"Gonna check in with the locals, maybe they got something."

Don nodded, Billy's footsteps blending into the background noise of the bull pen floor. He chewed on his lower lip, scanning through names, thinking _maybe _as his wrist connected with a silver picture frame, glass shattering as it hit the floor. Slivers flicking light off a narrow dock and fishing rod, a young man and his father holding out a respectable sized bass for all to see

_Crap_.

He fumbled on the floor, using paper as a dust pan and his hand as an unwilling catch-all to sweep away the mess, feeling sick at the sight and cursing as blood dribbled from his left ring finger and pinky. The cuts weren't terribly deep, steri-strips versus stitches, but careless enough to leave his head resting against the slate gray steel, a drawer handle digging inconsiderately in his side.

"Damn it," Don whispered, blindly reaching for the box of Kleenex he knew was somewhere between the monitor and the phone.

He was tired. It was only ten freakin' thirty in the morning, day number four of mandatory leave. Here he was here though, not at brunch…

_Fantine has died leaving young Cosette to the mercy of __Thénardie__r and his wife…_

Don swallowed thickly. He knows Victor Hugo, knows Valjean is the hero of the novel (the novel is better and not the musical which it seems everyone loves) and survives to the end. The moral of the story is easy enough to find.

If one was looking.

oOo

"_It is a beautiful story, darling."_

_The coffee house lights were yellow and low. The front doors had been locked ten minutes ago, the last of what was in the urn splashing in his cup. His fingers traipsed through the pages, the bookmark a paper scribbled with a few lines of Eliot. _

"_It's a long story," he said._

_The towel was spattered with chai and mocha as quick motions swept away bits of muffin and scone, " 'Of whom did he think in this overwhelming dejection? Neither of himself nor of Marius. He thought of Cosette.' " She paused in front of him, rested her cheek on her hand, elbow on the bar, her smile dreamy. "You need to stop working so much."_

_She took the empty mug and dropped it in a basin of dirty glassware, the brown skirt swishing against the cobalt apron, "This was your __apéritif__. Now I will take you home and feed you."_

_The bar stool was burgundy and matched the low-lit walls. He slumped on the padding, watched her as she set the last of the glasses on the high shelves and emptied the espresso machine of its grounds._

"_That's why I'm with you," he finally offered. _

_She rolled the apron in a ball, tossed it in a hamper behind the counter. He got up to follow her, pressing closer as her hand passed over the wall. The lights flickered off, one by one, until they were standing in the dark. His hands traced the line of her face, the curve of her jaw. _

" '_Love each other dearly always,' " she whispered. " 'There is scarcely anything else in the world but that…' " _

_Her words were cut off with a kiss, soft and gentle, urgent and needy. It lingered, not exactly Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman. Bergman was right however, though this was something more damning and tragic, Bogart and Bergman lost inside Rick's Café Américain._

_All that was missing was Dooley Wilson and the lingering cigarette smoke._

_He drew back a little, to study her face, to brush back the wisps of hair that teased her brow and his eyes when he kissed her. She pulled at his hand, nudged him toward the front door._

_He kept his back to her and his eyes on the street as he heard the key twisting in the lock, the sound of keys landing in her handbag. He took her hand again as they walked the four blocks back to their apartments._

"_That's your châteaux en Espagne," he said._

oOo_  
_

The tissues soak red quickly, leaving behind sticky copper shards and the realization that Krista Anderson has already been missing, _kidnapped from her Sleeping Beauty bedroom,_ for ten hours now. Ten hours was too long and soon enough wouldn't matter. _Then anything that was Chris Anderson will have all but vanished from the earth._

"Can't leave you alone for a second."

Don jumped at Cooper's intrusion, feeling ridiculous and chastised like a child who could not be trusted to be solitary. Then waved off the attention after Coop pulled him to his feet.

"It's nothing," Don said as he propped the frame, clean of glass, back on the desk top. "I've got a Quincy Jones and a Trevor Quenton, both drug possession priors. Quincy served a few for armed robbery. Got out last year."

Billy pulled open the desk's drawers, found a first aid kit in the bottom one. He muttered something about irresponsible partners, something Don wasn't sure if he was suppose to hear or not, a nearly corporeal concern rippled off Coop that wasn't normally there.

Gauze came from the left, quick enough that he shrugged off his earlier mawkish behavior for a more familiar bravado and assuredness that came with wearing kevlar and packing heat.

He tore the packaging open with his teeth as Billy leaned over the keyboard, his elbows resting on the desk as he scanned over the files, "You print these out?"

Don shook his head as he stood facing Coop's back, then mumbled out, "If you can find the damn printer," as he fumbled with white tape and a crappy set of scissors that gummed and sawed at the adhesive.

The white threads broke through and Don winced as he pressed the tape over the unraveled edge of the gauze. "Did you find out anything while I was sacrificing for God and Country?"

Billy stood back, his eyes roaming the mess of desks and humanity, till he found the prize on the other side of the room. Don sighed and waited as Cooper jogged across the squad room floor and back again, files in hand.

He dumped them on the desk, sorted both into piles, "Richie Cunningham took the advice of a good padre and was digging through Anderson's notes looking for any mention of Mr. Q." Cooper held up Quincy's photograph, "Looks like Devon dropped in on Mr. Jones two weeks ago. There was a meeting out at a bowling alley on the West Side that Anderson followed them too."

"Don't suppose the name of the place was Tyson's, was it?"

Billy clapped him on the back, grabbed his coffee as they herded out towards the exit, passing secretaries protected behind glass cages and a deputy who's eyes asked them to bring a little girl home.

"That'd be too easy, Eppes. Where's the fun in that?"

* * *

Both quotes from Gisella come from Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. 

And _chateaux en Espagne_ literally means 'castles in Spain' or more metaphorically 'castles in the air'


	6. Between the Potency and the Existance

A/N - Hey all. I hope you had a wonderful New Year. I sure did and have found a new appreciation for the new Star Wars movies after watching the Star Wars Holiday Special. (If you've never heard of it, Wikipedia/YouTube it and prepare to be amazed.) Though I still hold that the originals are the only way to go…

I'm normally not one to beg for reviews, but I would really honestly like to know what you thought of this chapter. Dialogue is pretty minimal initially and it's constructed differently than what has been up till now my normal style.

Thanks!

* * *

"_**It only takes one to sound the alarm."**_

"_**Then we'll do it real quiet-like." **_

_- Princess Leia Organa (Carrie Fisher) to Han Solo (Harrison Ford). The Return of the Jedi, 1983._

* * *

**September 20, 1998**

**Rockford, Illinois **

**A Stake-Out**

oOo

The impromptu file read like an after-school special: don't do drugs, stay in school, and aim to achieve. There's mostly A's and a few B's. She excels in history and penmanship, fares not quite as well with fractions and decimal points. After school, on Mondays and Wednesdays, she studies ballet and can do all five basic positions without exception and plays on the uneven bars on Fridays at the local Y.

He'd always had a crush on Nadia Comaneci and her perfect _skip to front salto_.

As he tipped back in the seat, things felt slightly off. The view was lower here than it was in the SUV. The dashboard loomed closer and tighter to his chest. The forest-green pine air freshener did nothing to hide the smell of stale fries and cigarettes. They had traded the company vehicle back at the Sheriff's office for a frumpy gray sedan that was slightly more inconspicuous than the Suburban that all but had 'lawmen' stamped over the sides. The registration in the glove compartment read the owner was one Wesley Booth.

Their exit was quiet and ushered through the station's back door. There were reporters, Sheriff Booth said, waiting out front. The fourth estate wanted to know the reason for the Winnebago County and Rockford Police collaboration that nearly shut down the city, roadblocks out of town, checkpoints through the city. It was a big case, something that shocked the community, drawing journalists out from Chicago and, more naturally, the local variety.

It had seemed then that maybe Rockford wasn't cleaning up as nicely as the city council first imagined. Reforms and initiatives falling short of a deeper, more sinister problem. In short, a new platform for new legislation as elections loomed over the horizon.

Thomas Carlyle was right when he said that journalism brought forth democracy.

Somewhere between the front door and the back, a dusky green file folder was shoved in his hands. He had heard the rapid-fire questions as Wesley Booth sacrificed himself as cover. He suspected it was no better at the hospital where Janine Anderson was pressing just to breath, where Warren Bonheur kept silent watch.

He thumbed through that folder now, papers hastily thrown together of school teachers and friends. It had been complied in grief, random information that was far from helpful, but somehow appropriate to remember who she was. _Is._

The Taurus was parked on a side street, half a block from the station. They found it easily enough, Coop behind the driver's seat and Don studying the map for navigation. It was Billy's turn, or at least Don thought it was. Either way, Don was certain he didn't want to be mistaken as the owner of the Ford.

"Well, it's a no go on the cell lock," Don said, closing his phone, slipping it back into his pocket. "Dispatch says they found his car this morning, couple blocks from here. They just hauled it in for evidence."

Billy nodded, his eyes alternating between right and left, glancing up occasionally at the rear-view mirror only to up the car's acceleration, pushing to see how fast he could make her go. _Cars were always female,_ he had said. _Some were prettier than other, Eppes,_ Coop railed on. _But with the right driver behind the wheel, they could go anywhere._

It wasn't hard to figure that Billy fancied himself far more than the average driver.

The air was damp and almost soupy, closer to London's fog than LA's dry yellow haze. Or at least, that's how Don imagined it. He had never been to England, but Charlie had been living there and complained about it on their last phone call. That was some months ago, June or July maybe. Charlie was missing fireworks, parades and the Red, White and Blue. Don had thought about mailing him sparklers, Roman candles. Illinois was more lenient in restrictions than neighboring states.

Instead, he sent a card and a copy of Independence Day. It was a less lethal gift, though distinctly American as apple pie. After all, it couldn't get more patriotic than Will Smith shooting down aliens and saving the world as they know it from destruction.

A few months before that, Charlie had mailed him an Olney-Buckinghamshire shirt for Pancake Day; a day he said his brother would appreciate much more than he, with women running through the streets with skirts flying and frying pans stacked with pancakes in hand racing to St. Peter and St. Paul Church. Don was surprised, had half expected something Manchester United, but then Charlie thought himself something of a Young Turk and always would be.

He shifted on the grayish upholstery, zipping his jacket over the kevlar vest, then locking his elbows straight forward on the dash as Billy rounded another turn. They would be running soon and his heart was already pounding, tension and adrenaline pushing off the early afternoon chill. Autumn was well enough when he could stay moving. But he was from Southern California and two Midwestern winters weren't quite enough to thicken his blood.

The Taurus slammed to a stop, Don studied the rundown apartment building: green shingle siding, rickety wooden balconies with less than stable struts. It wasn't the Hilton, wasn't even a low-end motel with cinder block and shag. He couldn't stop the small ripple of amusement that broke the tension riding on his back, the last place they stayed at in Northern Minnesota had old school wood paneling and nearly identical paintings over the beds of Canadian Geese in full flight.

He could write a book, one of those enormous coffee table books with glossy pictures and short descriptions that had one giant dedication and source of inspiration in the front.

Don was more than certain it'd be a better seller than his brother's last piece of publishing. _Where it Hits the Fan: Motels of the Midwest _would certainly be more entertaining than _The Eppes Convergence: Something Equation something mathematics, blah, blah, blah... _

Not that he wasn't proud of his brother. He was, even had a few of the more notable papers that their mother tucked in a battered and scribbled-on manila folder that she mailed to him and now laid in the middle drawer of his desk. Still, it just didn't seem right that Charlie's career had started at least a decade ago. The good professor was only twenty three.

And if he was honest. Real and truly honest, it was hard. It was damn hard not to be jealous.

They left the car behind, parked back and away behind the dumpsters. Curtains, fabric seemingly heavier than light cotton, were drawn over the windows. There were only four, one in each quadrant looking faintly like algebra or trig. Or something Charlie would work on whenever he was home.

The apartment building was located on a street corner, two blocks down from the Rock River. Their target was the first story east-side.

There was a front door, plywood and pressboard that creaked on sad hinges; then a short hallway that connected to the back door. The staircase was covered in an almost-mildewed berber, the railings faux-twisted iron that would have looked more appropriate outdoors.

He wrinkled his nose as he skirted the stairs, it smelled to near to a university dorm or frat house. He stepped over a dried brown stain. _Worse_ than a dorm or frat house he decided. Billy was ahead of him, the dim lighting from narrow windows showing his hair to be more red than brown, the flaps of his jacket throwing shadows on Don's face.

Communication was reduced to hand signals. Something Don felt could be more effective than words. Straightening out from his partial crouch, his Glock ready and waiting, Don went to the left hand side of the door, Coop on the right. This was the way it always was, most usually anyways. Don would cover and Billy would knock the door down. They both had their strengths. They both had their weaknesses.

The door to apartment three was no better than the outer one. The lighting was slightly better near the dusty window, didn't help appearances with the cracked and faded paint and the flickering light by apartment four. The walls were thin, voices carried, one louder, harsher and much deeper; the quiet timber of the other deferring to his companion's angry expletives.

Coop looked at him, _Ready?_ the implied question. Don gave a sharp nod, then held out three fingers and at Billy's prompting lowered them one by one.

_Three, two, one. Execute!_

When Don had first entered the Academy at Quantico, when he ran his first exercise through Hogan's Alley, he never thought wielding a gun would ever become something routine, something flirting on the edges of the mundane with its familiarity.

It still hadn't, but he wondered if it wasn't for the adrenaline that maybe someday it could.

At first he tried the handle, _locked_. But then the door splintered easily as Coop's foot connected between the frame and handle, flying back and away. Billy moved in quickly, diagonally to the right, Don moving in to the left.

The room was far from impressive. Mini-blinds were dusty and gray, closed tightly against the wan sunlight. A rust floral sofa pushed up against the wall by the door, the duster was worn, tatters inflicted by an over-eager pet or simply time. The apartment above leaked through the ceiling below, hard water stains dripping down over walls, leaving a sense of something entirely appropriate under the circumstances. Up against the far wall, nestled with a doorway on either side was a bruised and bloodied Bruce Willis crashing through Nakaktomi Plaza.

In the corner by the window, half hidden by the shadows, sits Barbie. Her dress is long and red, so much tulle and gold sparkles, tangled blonde hair and a tiara. Even from where Don stood, he could see her matching red shoes.

Billy raised his eyebrow and shrugged as he glanced at the television screen. Then raised a finger in warning, motioning to the door on the left.

From what Don understood of the layout of the apartment, that doorway lead to what he presumed to be the bedroom with sliding glass doors leading out to a cement slab. A cubbyhole kitchen was cramped behind the other. It wasn't much to look at, wasn't much to pay for. Quincy Jones seemed to know how to stretch a dollar.

There was another crash this time. One that was more real than Hollywood effects, more real than John McClane.

The two raced towards the kitchen. Shattered glass still fell from the sliding doors onto tired linoleum whose color was nearly in descript. Don could feel small pricks along his bare neck, heard a steady crunching sound that faded to wet socks and mud that tried to hold him back as he strained to lengthen his stride.

The man was fast, Don had to give him that. From here though, with blonde braids swinging and the burden of a whimpering little girl, he could tell that it was Germaine. He was a big man, well over six foot, solidly built, in excellent shape.

Don knew it had to be Germaine. Jones had no reason for this sort of quarrel.

He could hear Billy behind him, cursing, calling back up and keeping pace. Cooper may have had the longer legs, the gate to match. But Don knew how to run, knew how to make it home before being called out. Couldn't help but think this was the most important run of his life.

There were buildings he was running past. He was sure of that, though they blended together, then fell away as they passed behind him. He knew that when they began running that there would be nowhere to go.

And like what Don had heard a million times before, he got to nowhere in a hurry, fast.

He squinted his eyes against the steady drops that hit his face, dripped down his chin soaking the open collar of his jacket, "Devon, give it up. You're not going anywhere."

Germaine's eyes darted left and right, his hand holding a tight fist on Krista's nightie. The little girl's eyes were red, her breathing unsteady, full of broken hiccups and terrified gasps.

Don edged closer, his Glock pointed forward and slightly down. Krista was over Devon's shoulders and there was no way he was going to hit her, "Put her down, Devon."

The man had backed himself up against the banks of the Rock River with Don on his right and an office building to his left. His face was impassive, hard lines ran through his forehead, pulled at the corners of his eyes. Germaine's jaw was set and Don couldn't help wondering how many times those shoulders spun around his nephews, been there for his sister to lean on.

"What would Santianna think?" Another step, "And the boys, Devon? What about them?"

He could see Krista shiver, saw her eyes widen in surprise when he let the badge that dangled on a chain fall from his coat. She was a cop's kid. She knew who the good guys were.

Don felt, rather than heard, Coop behind him. That was the thing with partners, Billy was always there, never any questions, always the same. It was a fact like the circumference of a circle was pi times double the radius and two suns always rose on Tatooine.

"Give it up man," Billy now. His steps unassuming and self-assured, "I'm wet and tired and I think Krista here wants to go home."

She nodded, bangs plastered to her forehead, messy ponytail bobbing in the wind. "Please?" Krista asked quietly.

The only thing that could be heard in the wake of that thunderbolt was the rush of the river and the rain hitting the pavement, the water with ferocity. Don blinked hard, resisted the urge to wipe the water from his face. Germaine looked a little lost at that. He swung Krista gently over his shoulder to the ground, his hand still holding her in place.

"That's it man, just let her go."

The man acted like an automaton, reacting to sounds, fingers her ponytail, her hair so blonde it's nearly white. His hand rested on Krista's shoulder, his eyes lowered. She stands there gasping and shuddering, daring, hoping to make a move.

Don slides a foot forward, he thought of little Tyrese and how its too bad people are stupid because he's never going to respect his uncle, never will have a chance to get to know him.

Don doesn't tell Germaine that.

A crack of lighting hit the sky and Devon's head lifted quickly, his eyes growing wide at the sight of Don almost close enough to pull Krista from him. Billy stepped closer then too and the thought of the cage to come was more than the fugitive could handle.

Germaine pushed her backwards. Krista was crying and tripping over unkept grass and littered tin cans. Don lunged for her, rolling across the gravel and broken glass, trying to shield himself and her, surprised at how light she was.

There was a quick succession of gunshots and a heavy thud. Krista whimpered against his vest. "It's okay, sweetie," he said, wishing only that it was true and that he could take away the last twenty four hours and give her back her daddy.

She clutched his badge in one hand and worms the other under his kevlar vest holding on tight enough to not let him go. Don could see Billy out of the corner of his eye, phone to his chin, his feet heavy from pacing. Germaine was splayed out on the ground, unmoving and silent.

Don laid there, shielding her eyes and half anticipating for the other shoe to drop. But it doesn't, so he unsteadily uses one arm to prop the two of them up. Krista only grabs him more firmly when he moved.

"How 'bout we go see your Uncle Warren, Krista?"

Her breath sharply inhaled, two green eyes look up and a tiny hand with metallic purple fingernail polish trace the edge of his chin, "You're hurt."

Her tone was dull but her touch was electric, and her hand came away sticky with red that faded to pink in the rain.

"It's nothing."

Krista nodded and then buried her head in his neck as Billy gave him a hand up. Don turned back for one last look, surveying the scene, the uniforms who hurried with yellow tape and questions and wondered how they made it there so quickly.

Billy pushed them off with gruff words and a tone that dared them to try, instead steered Don and his bundle toward the coming sirens and flickering red and blue lights.


	7. The Hope only of Empty Men

A/N - I just really want to say thank you to all of you who've been reviewing and such. It really great to here from you and I so appreciate it.

So on that note, as Mr. Tumnus said, further up and further in!

* * *

"_**You know, Don. You and I are very alike. We are both focused on large, possibly unattainable goals. Me trying to explain the workings of the universe..."**_

"_**And what am I doing? Trying to take all those unworkable workings and put them in jail. Yeah good luck to both of us."**_

_- Lawrence Fleinhardt (Peter MacNicol) to Don Eppes (Rob Morrow). Convergence, Numb3rs Season 2._

* * *

**September 20, 1998**

**Rockford, Illinois**

**Swedish American Hospital**

**Between Charles and East State Street**

oOo

The bright blue drapery paper was heavy, his breath reflecting and coming back to warm his skin. The color was strange, a sad imitation of a robin's egg, something closer to a false tropical sky with animated birds and perfectly drawn happy endings. A slight tugging on his lower left jaw coincided with a soft snip and then, the clatter of metal on metal.

He closed his eyes against the blue filtered light, purple and green halos dancing against a black backdrop greeted him. Long fingers brushed against his cheek quickly, the place of touch hardly cooling before the tugging returned, lidocaine deadening nerves, yet hardly removing all sense of feeling.

"That's good, Timothy. Now close it a little tighter, remember to make a firm knot."

Don resumed his hold on the tan padded examining table, flexing his fingers, white tissue paper crumpling under his grip. _Wide open places, _he thought. _Green field, white bases, blue pinstripes, Cracker Jack and Pennsylvania white ash._

His fingers formed a fist and hit the bench as the tugging turned to something closer to blunt and then a sharper pain. His lips fumbled with a curse, only foiled by lidocaine that should have traveled further south. He waved away the drape, pulling it off his eyes and offering a finger to the resident with the shaking curved needle in his hand.

"Easy, Agent Eppes." The nurse, and older woman with gray brushed blonde curls, pushed back on Don's shoulders, lowering him back down, the cushion exhaling and the paper shifting under his body, her gloved hands running soothingly through his hair, "Doctor Moore here will just use a bit more so you won't feel a thing."

Her eyebrows raised at the young physician who hurriedly nodded and then picked up the lidocaine syringe. It might have been a trick of the light, a change of perspective or reality, yet it seemed so much larger than before and his face, swollen and sore, wanted none of that. Don wondered if seven stitches were really necessary and that maybe only five would do instead.

"How they treating you here, man?"

Billy stood in a casual stance, arms crossed his chest, leaning against a bright red crash cart. His kevlar vest was loosened under his windbreaker, the knees of his jeans were blackened and torn. A look that told Don he was clearly glad it was his partner's face on the receiving end of the first aid and not his own.

Don grunted, pushed himself upright and off the table, grabbed a wad of gauze from the instrument tray and pressed it to his face. The motion proved his jaw was still there, that he wouldn't have to go through life with his tongue falling out or his face completely one-sided, a tragic modern Erik, a phantom long rejected by Christine. He wobbled for a moment, nearly betrayed by gravity, then gained his equilibrium. "Better now," he said, with his t's slurring to d's, rather like a stroke victim than a field agent.

He cowed the doctor with a look and fended off the nurse's mother-glare. She reminded him more of his Aunt Irene than his mother, the pithless stare and unamused brow. _And Irene would always let him go when he gave her that smile. _The prescription went in his pocket and then paused when he saw that Nurse Patty would not let him leave without some sort of final care.

"You'll need to keep this clean," she said, wiping off the yellow-brown iodine and taping a smaller gauze square in place. "Have your doctor look at them in a week and don't be afraid to take your meds."

Don gave her a half-drooping grin, his thank you coming out indiscriminately, the k his next victim.

"No, Agent Eppes and…" she gave a nod to Cooper. "Thanks to both of you."

Coop pushed back the curtain, his skin tinted with the slightest bit of red and head bowed in acknowledgement.

The two men walked the length of the busy hall, the floor white tiles interspersed with random blue flecks and every fourth tile, an erratic blue flecked with white. Don said nothing as he followed Billy to the elevators, his partner hitting the up arrow, himself leaning against the beige walls, lightly resting his hands behind him on the random blue band of trim, nearly wainscoting, that held to the middle of the plastered drywall.

The stainless steel doors opened quietly, a tall woman with a brown bob in a lab coat walking alongside a still taller man in blue surgical scrubs. She gave them passing acknowledgement as they switched places, going out to coming in, as she disappeared around an unfamiliar corner.

Don wandered in, only to stand the way he did before he got on to the lift. Billy hit the close door button before any stragglers could jump on board.

The adrenaline from the last twelve hours started to fall nearly as quickly as gravity as they watched the floor levels light as they were passed. Don didn't realize his chin had dropped to his chest until Billy nudged his shoulder.

"We're here."

Don opened his eyes and they walked into a small atrium, a bank of windows in front of them, a line of potted ferns and leafy tropical plants on either side, perhaps there to add a sense of naturality to the sterile air, the pervading sense of falseness that transformed a simple building to a house of mourning, _suffering._

The theme of this floor was a lighter, almost minty green with tiles and trim. They ambled slowly, Coop rolling his shoulders and Don holding his jaw.

"How she doing?"

"Well enough," Billy said. "The doc said other than a big scare and a couple of scrapes, she's gonna be okay." He paused, his face down and right foot shuffling, "The press wants to hear from the other half of Butch and Sundance."

_Vultures._

They stopped in a waiting room at the end of the hall opposite the elevator foyer. It wasn't much more than a sofa shoved to one corner and greenish-gray carpet on the floor. Don walked to the window, from here he could look out over the hospital complex, low clouds pressing down, almost touching the pebbled roof that stretched out in front of him. His jacket was still damp, draped over his arm, nearly useless. Not even appropriately a Chekhov's gun.

There was a tight crowd close to the overhang three floors below. Flashing lights from several squad cars kept most of the stragglers away. The news vans were back at a farther perimeter, the large video cameras and equipment, reporters and camera flashes far too evident.

"How's Janine?" he asked, voice low and rough, almost flirting on the edges of a cold. It was an answer not readily wanted, needed though to weigh words and phrases.

"Alright, I guess," Coop said. "Haven't heard anything other than 'critical but stable.' Warren said she was holding her own." He had moved over to the window, one arm pushing away curtains. "Can you get a load of them down there?"

There was a faint line of disgust running through Billy's words. Don had heard it a time or two before, but their other cases, the fugitive recovery cases, had hardly ever borne such a mass of sudden collateral damage.

It disgusted and invigorated him at the same time.

"Booth is setting up a press conference," Billy continued. "There's a room down by the cafeteria. He wants the both of us there as soon as you stop sounding like a Dukes of Hazzard reject."

Don lifted his left hand and pulled back his sleeve. It was almost half-past four._They had plenty of time to make the six o'clock news. _It was an almost parasitic balance: law-enforcement and the media. He could understand, almost appreciate, the public's right to know. _Phoned-in tips had certainly paid off in the past._ It was when it broached on voyeurism and obsession that he became uncomfortable.

_It was JonBenét and Baby Jessica all over again._

"Guess that makes you Bo," Don answered.

"Well then, Luke," Billy's grin was all teeth, sort of wild and carefree. "Let's by no means disappoint Sheriff Coltrane."

oOo

"She hasn't said a word."

Warren Bonheur paced in front of the window of the pediatric room, the hall brightly painted with balloons and circus elephants. He wore an FBI polo and jeans, his badge clipped to his belt along with his cell phone and gun. The lines on his face were deeper than Don last remembered seeing. They went beyond normal aging, instead a sign of his deep grief and worry. His hair seemed more silvery than before.

Warren had stayed away from the press conference. It was one Don would have easily chosen hooky over. The drama daringly so Hollywood, yet all the more real with the setting in a quietly more obscure town than New York or Miami.

Good Sheriff Booth had presided, his relief palpable as could be with the events as they were. He had thanked the people of Rockford, thanked the locals, thanked his colleagues. It had gone so well, Don felt wonderfully anonymous, happy to stand off to the side and out of the limelight. Till a perky blonde who was probably once upon a time both the head cheerleader and the homecoming queen, asked where was the man whom she had glimpsed carrying Krista to the ambulance and who was the man with him who had shoved the other cops away.

Both he and Billy had been introduced, name spellings corrected, blinded by Nikon ring flashes and whiplashed by questions. _How was the girl? Did Germaine put up a fight? Were their serious injuries? How long had they been a team?_

It was later then that Don decided that this day had become all sorts of backwards as he watched his boss erratically pace. Don had never seen Warren uncertain before, never so unnerved, jittery even. It was wrong, as wrong as a young detective's tragic death, a woman who might not wake up, their daughter trapped in a world of her own.

Don wanted to push open the door, he wanted to see Krista for himself. To see the last few hours really happened, that him carrying her away was reality and not fiction.

He tipped his head to the door, Warren nodded, his hand fluttering in acquiescence. "Gonna check Janine," he said as he walked quickly away.

Billy took the seat by the door in the hall.

Don opened it slowly, nearly soundlessly. Krista startled a little at his slow steps, a nervous swallow, then hutched at the tray table that rested over the hospital bed, plain with white sheets and a dangling pastel curtain.

Her hair was hanging long and free now, gently dripping over a pink sweatshirt and gray joggers. A soft yellow blanket was pulled tightly over her shoulders and her fingers trembled slightly as a chocolate brown crayon colored in Ariel's hair.

Krista colored well, Don thought. She pressed the crayon down hard, darkening the edges closest to the black lines, then shaded lighter the further in she went. The picture was nearly done, the mermaid's tail was a dark lavender rather than green; the twin sea shells, silver. A little pink tongue poked out from lips nearly washed out as the sea flower went from plain white to a brilliant yellow shaded with orange.

The silence was overwhelming and unbroken.

There was a padded chair in corner closest him. The fabric was a soft mauve with shimmery whorls that reflected light. Don pushed it close to the bed and sat down. Krista all but ignored him, the crayon wisping across the paper.

He dropped into the chair, slumped forward with his elbows resting on his knees and watched her work.

"I have this friend," Don said after some minutes. Krista set down her crayon then, only to pick up the bottle of purple Gatorade and took small, delicate sips. "She likes Disney movies too. Told me her favorite was Beauty and the Beast."

She set the bottle back down and carefully wound the orange cap on the bottle, nearly half left. Krista chose a blue crayon this time and began steadily working on shading all the water around a school of fish.

"…I think it's just because she's from France." Don paused, "Did you know that Beauty and the Beast is a French fairy tale?"

The blonde waves jerked up and down quickly, enough to encourage his monologue. Don smiled softly, "I think my favorite was Robin Hood or maybe Peter Pan." _Happy thoughts and flying, you know._ "He was pretty cool with that underground fort. I tried to build a tree house once. Didn't get very far…"

"I like Sleeping Beauty," she said, quietly, hesitantly. Her green eyes were wide as she pushed away the papers, the table rolling to the side and stopping with the end of kinetic energy.

Don pulled himself a little closer, unsure if more words would scare her away or maybe lead her on. The blanket pulled tighter, the gaps near her feet disappearing, her legs hidden under butter yellow wool.

"Why's that?"

Her eyes were greener than in the photograph, lovely if not a bit unreal with pools of water forming, spilling, "Daddy…" She hiccupped, lower lip trembling, "Daddy says I look like her."

Don felt his heart sink, down past his shoes, down past the elevator, Doctor Timothy and Nurse Patty in the ER, down past terra firma, down into the depths and finally stopping at the gates of Hades to the poet, Virgil.

_Abandon hope, ye who enter here…_

He was out of his realm here, out of known comforts and rules. He stood uncertainly, crouching low enough to be on her level and pulled her close, "Krista…"

For the second time that day, the girl buried her head in his neck, her hair teasing at the stitches. The bandage long since disappeared before the press conference.

Don edged himself up further on the bed as she scooted further on his lap. His hands were fisted in her hair as he rubbed her back. Krista cried. There was a wet spot spreading on his shoulder, unrelenting sniffles and coughs that quieted after a time.

He watched the clock in the corner, the hands seemingly frozen in place. The second hand, vaporized. Night had fallen, no moon beams pierced the window or brilliantly shining stars found their places in the sky to be wished upon.

Instead two emeralds drew his gaze downward, mesmerizing him like Ulysses' sirens. "Daddy's dead," she whispered finally, almost like a secret she did not wish to get out.

Tears slipped down her cheeks onto his hands. He let them fall, one by painful one.

"I know, sweetie," he said. "I know."


	8. Remember Us if at all Not as Lost

A/N - Hello all, I am sorry it has taken me such a while to update, but hopefully the length of the chapter will make up for it a bit. I can't get rid of this cold and have been putting in ridiculous overtime at work. And then I decided to knit my mom an afghan for her birthday. I think I have carpel tunnel syndrome now.

I am also trying to remember if I ever use to like snow. We've gotten more this past winter than we have over the last couple of years. I now cannot understand why anyone (namely me) would think of Russia or Alaska as being romantic because snow, outside of Christmas and school snow days I can no longer have, are definitely not what dreams are made of.

Oh, and here's my disclaimer: I do not like the Dallas Cowboys or the Chicago Bears (though because my dad is from down in that area and because da Superfans exist I find them more tolerable than the Cowboys) and the state of Illinois has a horrible roadway system that is in no way redeemed by the overpass rest stops.

But Chicago is definitely lovely at night.

* * *

"_**Wonderful. We are now a part of the tribe." **_

"_**Just what I always wanted." **_

_-C-P3O (Anthony Daniels) to Han Solo (Harrison Ford). Return of the Jedi, 1983._

* * *

**September 21, 1998**

**I – 90 East**

**Belvidere Tollway Oasis**

oOo

The Belvidere Oasis stretched across I-90, easily covering both lanes and anchored by gas stations on either end. It wasn't far out of Rockford and Chicago was still an hour and a half or so away. The roadway ran on for miles in either direction, four lanes divided in half by a strip of brown, further split by broken streaks of white. Lights flashed and there was a steady scream of uneven motorists, _fast, slow, faster yet still..._ The air tasted like exhaust and worn tires. The tollway had teased him, the monotony of traffic and the gauge needle that increasingly flirted with the capital E was enough reason to pull over. The promise of a pick-me-up hadn't hurt either.

Two tables over and off to the right, sat a harried mother torn between two young children and their happy meal prizes, a third sitting on his father's lap, the two of them watching traffic, the father detailing the _good_ cars from the _bad. _"You see," the man said seriously. "Mini-vans are no good, too soccer-mom. You want a SUV or a truck..."

The woman, a short blonde with dark roots, bangs hanging low, tossed a rumpled napkin hitting her husband between the eyes and drawing laughter from all the children, cut him off mid-sentence with words more amused than annoyed, "So you can haul all your _manly_ dirt and rocks around in. Jesse, Daddy wants a Tonka truck too."

Don pulled the paper a little closer to his face to hide his smile as the banter from the other table continued on, his hand brushing against a white paper cup that sat on the table, a thin veneer of cream marbleizing the top of the coffee. He rapped his fingers along the edge of the table top, quickly at first. Then slowly, one at a time, like the slow scales Mrs. Petrie would have him finish his lessons with.

"_You warm up and then cool down in baseball, Don. The piano is not much different."_

He remembered her lisp and her Cyndi Lauper hair. She told him to call her Ginny, but he never did because even his hippie parents thought that'd be too disrespectful. Charlie didn't like her, thought she was _weird_, but Don wondered now that maybe she was his first crush, a local artist earning a few extra dollars here and there. Her husband a guitarist, looked to be the next Tom Petty. By day giving his servitude to the Man for jingles and commercials, by night playing anything from junior proms to dive bars.

Don hoped that they made it.

He folded and then re-folded the sports page to glimpse the next page, the Tribune mourning yesterday's home run-less performance. Sammy was stuck at sixty-three. _Stage-fright_, Don imagined. Commissioner Selig and the Maris family were there and a Wrigley Field full of fans demanding something that was give or take, hit or miss.

Sosa missed. Three times.

Don had never been a power-hitter. That wasn't enough to silence the 'what-ifs' and 'perhaps-maybes.'

_You never know what you got till it's gone... _

"Anything interesting?"

Billy dropped a paper bag next to his coffee cup, the chair scratching against the tile floor that for a moment drown out the sound of a radio that echoed to the point of incomprehension in the near completely glass walled building.

Don passed the sports page to Cooper, then leaned back far in his chair, sipping at the now cooled coffee, interchanging that with a cinnamon bagel and cream cheese. Billy skipped over the Sosa news, went straight for the NFL scores. He was a football man, a childhood in Texas leaving an indelible mark on him in the shape of a blue five-pointed star. Don felt Billy's loyalty had more to do with blue and silver pom-poms, and not Troy Aikmen's throwing arm, or maybe it was a bit of both that kept his partner coming back each and every season.

"They're taking the Giants on tonight in New York," Billy said. Cooper never had to say who 'they' were. It was never as much a guess as it was a given. "Both have a win-lose so far. Should be a good game."

Billy checked his watch, gave a grunt and motioned to him to hurry it up. Don glanced down at his own. It was a little after five, gave them a good two hours to get home before Monday Night Football kick off.

It didn't take much to finish the bagel, the coffee chasing it down. Don crumpled the brown napkin and tossed in the gray industrial trash can as they walked though the double glass doors and out onto the car pavilion, lifting a brow as Billy paused to answer his phone, the taller man bouncing on the balls of his feet, nearly breaking into a jig, his fist pumping up and down in elation.

"We got the tickets," Cooper started as he cracked open the door and Don swung himself up onto the driver's seat, his voice not quite breathless, but eager and excited. "Henry's outta town the whole second half of October and giving me first dibs on the Dallas tickets."

"It's cold in October," Don said conversationally. There wasn't much to debate. He would go to the game, though he didn't really favor the Teddy Bears or the Cowboys. But Henry had good seats, a family inheritance on the fifty yard line twenty rows up in Soldier Field. "Have to get my snow suit out."

Billy looked hardly fazed, instead elated and oblivious to the dry humor, "It won't be that cold yet. Maybe I can get some of his November tickets if he's not going to be around and then you'll have a chance to play abominable snow man..."

November along Lake Michigan.

_If hell was to ever freeze over, that's exactly what he'd imagine it to be..._

Don pulled out of the space, and around the white Wal-Mart semis and Tombstone pizza trucks, Creedence Clearwater Revival coming on over the speakers, _Bad Moon Rising _diluting the sounds of the highway.

The two men made their plans, there was a third ticket to be considered and girlfriends, by mutual agreement, were left out. Just west of the Marengo exit, Don suggested Jason Hetzel out of the computer forensics lab but Billy said that since he was a Chicago fan it'd be counterproductive and be like watching the game with all of Bill Swerski and da Bears Superfans.

_"Da question is: Now, did God create da Bears and __**make**__ them superior to all teams? Or is he simply a huge fan and __**Ditka **__made them superior to all other teams?"_

At that thought, they both inwardly sighed a little but then Don told him that Jason really wasn't that bad and if Billy would just stop pretending to be some over-dramatic Barbara Streisand maybe he'd have someone else in mind.

Billy then suggested Greg Andreev out of Gang Crime, a scary son of a bitch who they never really bothered to ask who he cheered for but tended to show up for drinks more often than not when they caught any game down at the sports bar down the street from the FBI. Don imagined that if his life was film noir Andreev would be like Keyser Soze and have a secrete agenda and an even larger body count.

He shrugged and that was the end of that.

Around Carpentersville, his phone started to beep. Don tugged it off his belt as he pulled in behind a silver gasoline tanker, letting the BMW that had been kissing his ass for the last five miles finally pass him. The screen warned of low batteries, so he turned it off and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

The red yuppie car passed, a single finger waving sayonara. For a brief second, Don's hand rested on the lights and siren switch, running over the possibilities on the man's face at the sight of tetchy cherries and blueberries and charges for insulting and assaulting (yeah, it could work) an agent before ultimately deciding against it.

The paperwork would be hell anyways.

_City of the Big Shoulders…_

The suburbs were growing out westward, headed off in the east by the water, new sub-developments and strip malls took over corn fields and turned little farming towns into McMansion havens. Don shook his head with disgust. It wouldn't be long before the city took over everything and it'd be LA and yellow smog rimming the Great Lakes.

It had been a long day that was simply a cherry on top of the one before. The sprinkles were all the paperwork – an occational report with the five W's and an H, a shooting report, the closing out of a missing persons file.

Sometimes it wasn't all bad.

Sheriff Booth had pointed them towards the Baymont Inn on the East side of town not long after the press conference dog-and-pony-show. It was clean and neat, the mattresses softer than more familiar rat-trap motels and upright car seats.

The young man behind the counter was hutched over a thick text book when they walked in. His shirt was a faded green, the name tag read 'Brian' and he nervously asked if they wanted a king or two queens. Billy put his hands on his hips, his jacket pulled open slightly so that the butt of his Sig gleamed with incandescent light and Brian swallowed tightly.

Don leaned over the counter, spoke with a wry bedroom voice, "Darlin' here is trying to say two beds would be fine."

Billy growled and took the keys, one arching perfectly over his shoulder as Don reached up and caught it one-handed. "Thank you, Brian," he said. Cooper walked down the hall, his long legs carrying him past the elevators, only to disappear in the stairwell; a shiver shook organic chemistry equations. Don paused and then shrugged, "I'm sorry, we're still working on please and thank you."

The shower was going at full blast and steam pouring out the bottom of the bathroom door by the time Don had made it up to the room. He had taken the scenic route, stopped by the small gym with a lean set of weights and treadmill and then onto the pool filled with screaming teenagers, two girls in bikinis sitting on not-quite-broad shoulders in a game of chicken.

They kicked out and screamed their laughter, high and trilling, the sounds echoing and bouncing across the space thick with chlorine and somehow Don wrestled between the reality of now and the one of five hours ago. It was life and there had been too much death, and now time and present circumstances called him back from grief that was not fully his own.

He had a feeling that this might be the worse bender of his life.

So far.

Don claimed the bed by the window, pulled the remote off the nightstand and started running through channels. There was a lady making a quilt quickly replaced by cartoons and then rugby, he all but barely registered C-SPAN.

He kicked off his shoes, registered them thumping against the short pile berber. He rested against the starched pillow cases, pulling the smaller decorative (read: _obnoxious and incredibly useless_) ones to join the boots. Reaching over the port side, Don flipped his bedside lamp off and rested his forearm across his eyes to block out the existential light. Sports Center droned in a comforting manner in the background.

The bathroom door cracked open, accompanied by a burst of steam and humidity. A zipper caught against plastic teeth and he could hear Billy swear softly. It was followed by a slam against the wall.

"You break it, you buy it."

The bed next to his creaked softly, the polyester bedspread whispering, "No shit."

Don heard the frustration and anger in his partner's voice, he saw how pissed Billy was as they rode in the ambulance, Krista clinging to Don's jacket and shutting down for the whole world to see.

Game highlights were running across the television screen but he couldn't bring himself to focus on yet _another _Sosa – McQwire debate and discussion. Somehow, and he couldn't remember how or even when, he was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, his hair dripping down his shoulders and five angry-looking knots staring him back closely.

The five o'clock shadow would have to stay, unless he wanted to shave around the stitches. That would take more skill and care than he could muster at the moment, even if he found a wishing well. And even if he found one, or even Ponce damn de Leon's frickin' magical fountain of youth, wishes were much too rare (_miracles even rarer_) to waste on something so mundane.

_If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride…_

oOo

_He is seven years old and twisting his Pasadena Tigers hockey jersey in knots as the clock on-screen counts down in the final minute of the game. He is pressed close to the television, his mother tells him to back away else he'll go blind, his father complains that he can't see the puck move with his head in the way. Charlie is sitting on the floor by the sofa, staring at the building blocks in his hands._

_It is late February, flames are burning strong in the fire place, completely unnoticed, all attention drawn to the improbability on the television. The black puck in his hands is held so tightly that it's leaving indentations that mar the skin of his palms. _

_They are so close, thirty seconds to go, when Don decides Jim Craig is his hero. _

_And then it happens, the buzzer sounds and he is cheering and jumping up and down. Al Michaels asks if he believes in miracles and he does. He believes in miracles and underdogs and for the first time ever, he is swept up in the joy and dizziness of cheering for the U-S-A! Being on the side of the winning team. _

_He decides then he will go to the University of Minnesota, play hockey and find his own Madison Square Gardens to defeat the bad guys. _

_He never makes it to Lake Placid._

_He has still found a way to wear a white hat._

oOo

He ran a hand across his face, passed his hand over the switch as he left the bathroom door half-open. The television flickered and was nearly mute. Don was almost certain Billy was dead to the world now, but he left it on anyways. He doubted very much he'd be sleeping through the night and Cooper wouldn't be any better.

_If wishes were horses..._

_What was it his mother sang to him when he was young?_ It was there, on the tip of his tongue. But he couldn't exactly remember. This rhyme had horses too. But he wasn't a fifteen year-old girl at ballet camp and he never went to a sleep-over, French braiding his best friend's hair, so asking Billy was out.

Horses. It had something to do with horses…

oOo

_If wishes were horses,  
Beggars would ride.  
If turnips were watches,  
I would wear one by my side_

oOo

Chicago was pretty in the twilight. Pretty is not a word he likes to use often, for a perfect pitch maybe, for the Pacific at sunrise, for Molly Ringwald… But here, in Illinois, despite everything, the lights were stretching on for miles and it was just… Pretty.

He snorted softly to himself as he walked down the metal staircase leading down from the El. It was a little after eight, traffic was backed up on I – 90 into the city, an infuriating crawl that left the static-y radio as Cooper's only hope.

The truck would stay with Billy, there were more open parking spaces at his building, and Don didn't mind the extra half an hour or so home. He lived a block off the blue line on Damen, a couple of miles almost directly west of the Chicago History Museum. The view wasn't as fantastic as along Lake Shore Drive, but he wasn't far from it with his quiet, less tourist infested neighborhood.

The streets were mostly quiet when he arrived; a middle-aged woman was out with two terriers, her male companion towing the line of a German Shepherd. He tipped his head to them as they passed, her offering a quick wave, him a quick nod.

The duffle thumped against his back as he took the steps to the apartment's front door two at a time, the key to the security door fumbling in his hand. It was late and he was ready to be home long ago now. He thought about his bed and his shower with gallons of hot water. He thought about blonde curls soaked by the rain.

_Daddy's dead…_

Don swallowed and in that moment, time jumped again and he was at his front door, searching for keys again. He dropped the bag on the couch, his coat on the floor, as he turned to lock the door behind him.

He moved like through water, the answering machine was blinking at him, and suddenly more than anything else in the world, he was relieved to know that his family (_his dad)_ they are okay. They were a phone call away.

The phone looked almost serpentine in the low-light, he reached for the cordless only to see that it wasn't there and a fleeting memory of leaving it in the kitchen before he left, _how long ago now? A life time? A million years? _He found it again, by an empty pub glass advertising New Glarus _Fat Squirrel_. It beeped a little, demanding a charge, so he left it on the cradle. His cell is equally lifeless so that was to be charged as well.

For now… For now he was unreachable. And for now that was alright with him. The computer tempted him slightly, there was always email or IM, but either one was too impersonal now, too distant. He thought of Superman then, of the ice cave, _Fortress of Solitude, _of Marlon Brando and of how things didn't turn out so well for Christopher Reeves after all.

Don wondered if he too was maybe to distant and that mortality was more fragile than it was five years ago.

He felt his way along from the living room to the short hallway that led to the bedroom and bath. It was Eliot's etherized dream world, _death's dream kingdom, _the souls of the dead and damned caught forever in limbo, never alive and forever never found.

The weight of gravity pressed harder upon him, it made sense to him because if he was another world away, _and he was almost sure of it now,_ the gravity of a larger darker planet placed so much more on any object (_even him_) than that gravity of earth.

He laid there and wondered if he could fly, could a planet's hell-bent tailspin truly be reversed…

oOo

_When you wake you shall have  
All the pretty little horses.  
Blacks and bays, dapple grays,  
Coach and six white horses…._

oOo

The clock may have read after nine but it still was too early for that goddamn perky alternative. There was no recollection of setting the alarm the night before, but there it was, his clock radio in all of its glory, doing it's very best to bring him back to consciousness.

_It's been one week since you looked at me…_

Don rolled over and pulled the pillow down tightly over his ears. The music was soft enough to be ignored yet fast enough to remind him that he wanted to do something with his day.

It was time for re-entry, to break through the atmosphere and make his landing on_ terra firma_ once again. The extra adrenaline of the last two days had left him jittery, on edge. _A run,_ he thought. He'd run for miles, burn away his anxiety, (_anger, frustration_) work on regaining his place among the common populace again.

At least until his next assignment.

His work demanded and stole something from him. Don remembered learning a long time ago when he turned his back on baseball that the world wasn't exactly a fair place to be. But even a further innocence had been stripped from him in the past two years. Even now he felt an awful ache that demanded numbing.

All because he knew something that it seemed no one else on the planet did, man in inhumanity, was not a good or a lovely thing. People could try, could fundamentally care. In reality though, in all truth, life wasn't fair and her citizens, cruel and base, had instincts bordering on selfishness and narcissism rather than pure love and selflessness.

He had seen too much now and no bright-eyed philosophy student could change his mind.

_Five days since I laughed at you…_

Both phones would be charged by now, his calls could be made. _Too bad the moment had passed, the almost frantic necessity worn away. _He shrugged, his mother would appreciate one either way.

_Three days since the living room… _

The air in the bedroom was cool, he grabbed a well-worn sweatshirt with 'Stockton' emblazoned on it and began pulling his arms through the sleeves. The door buzzer startled him, visitors were unexpected but not a surprise. It could be Billy, could be Jake or Helena.

It wasn't Gisella, she had a key.

_We realized that we were both to blame… _

The neck caught on his nose as he tried to ease it carefully over his face, trying to avoid the stitches mostly successfully. "I'm comin'," he muttered, pulling the bedroom door closed to hide most his recent disorganization, only to make it in time to buzz in Jake judging by the impatient start of Beethoven's Fifth on his doorbell.

_But what could we do?_

He gave a disdainful eye to the obstacle course on the floor, shoved the duffle bag in the closet next to the washer and dryer. Then hung the coat on the rack next to the door. The shoes were straightened on the rug and then he figured anything else could be classified under 'lived in.'

_Yesterday you just smiled at me…_

It would be maybe another minute or so, the elevator in his building wasn't that fast and the stairs were even slower. His refrigerator had milk, orange juice and left-over chicken; the cupboards, bread and canned fruit. _Gisella,_ he thought as he took out a glass and poured the juice.

'_Cause it'll still be two days till we say we're sorry…_

There was a soft knock and then a slightly louder one at the door. Don rounded the wall that changed to a breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the main living area. He took a long drink, savoring the citrus only to choke on it when he looked through the spy hole.

_It'll still be two days till we say we're sorry… _

The chain slid back easily and hit the frame work hard and Barenaked Ladies echoed through his head and maybe, just maybe, out loud, though he honestly couldn't say which.

_It'll still be two days till we say we're sorry…_

Alan Funt is dead he knows, but some small part of him still can't help but look for a hidden camera and a smart ass with a microphone as he pulled open the door and was enveloped in a long-familiar hug and a heavy clap on the back.

"We saw the news, everyone in the neighborhood saw the news. You were on every station. And then we couldn't reach you…" She stepped back and traced the line of stitches and rubbed the stubble heavy on his face. "Oh, Don…"

_Birchmount Stadium, Home of the Robbie_

"I'm fine," he protested. And he was, physically at any rate. Give him a few more days emotionally, to get things together. To pull himself together.

_If wishes were horses…_

The two faces were solemn and care-worn. He opened the door wider and ushered them in, painfully aware of his present state of dress, inwardly cheering he remembered sweatpants over his boxers before he even went to bed.

He set the nearly empty glass down, uncertain of his next move, his immediate future entirely off kilter. Wondered if he had completely lost his touch since he hasn't been this thrown off by a story twist since _The Usual Suspects._

_This is how the world ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper_

Don stood there with his back to the wall, his left hand uncertainly tugging on his neck and reality shredding his perceptions, _this was the last thing he wanted right now._

"Can I get you something to drink, Mom? Dad?"


	9. The Perpetual Star

A/N - Okay, so I'm a dork but I'm uber-excited because I now know how to knit socks. In fact, I knitted a pair and not only do they resemble socks, they actually fit. Life is very good.

Shrimp - thank you for reviewing! My brothers go to da U, so I now know more about hockey than my brief education from the cheesiness that is _Cutting Edge._

* * *

"_**Commie."**_

"_**G-Man."**_

_- Don Eppes (Rob Morrow) to Alan Eppes (Judd Hirsch). Protest, Numb3rs Season Two._

* * *

**September 22, 1998**

**Apartment 621**

**Chicago, Illinois**

oOo

Don rubbed the towel fiercely over his head, the friction causing his hair to stand up on end. He used a comb but bypassed the shaving, the stitches fading nicely into the dark growth, leaving him with a rather rakish look.

He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

He had left his parents in the living room twenty or so minutes before, his dad putting the coffee maker to use and his mom lightly dozing on the sofa. They had fussed, though not too much, and he hadn't missed the deep shadows or worry lines that wrinkled their faces. Alan had seemed quieter than usual, Margaret thinner and more worn down than he last remembered.

His hand reached for the dark blue button-up. It was dressier than what he originally would have worn had he spent the day by himself, but his mother had taught him how to keep up appearances and there was no time like the present. _And all the other clichés that went along with that._

In for a penny, in for a pound.

The time was going on eleven thirty, so he figured they could find a restaurant and grab something to eat. After that, he wasn't exactly sure what to do with them. He needed to stop by the FBI building sometime that day. Margaret would most likely get a kick out of it. She, being a lawyer, tended to appreciate law enforcement. His father, being a war protester with an impressively large file, not quite so much.

oOo

"_Are you aware of your father's 'history' with the Bureau?"_

_Don shifts uncomfortably in the chair, he vaguely remembers his mother teasing his father about his criminal record but it had been years and nothing but a fleeting memory jumbled between daycare and Sesame Street. _

_The interview has been going well up to that point. He had been in his element, talking easily, trading quips and talking baseball history with the stern-faced man behind the desk. _

_Timothy Rilke has a good twenty years on him, has steel gray hair and a habit of looking over his reading glasses. He has a commanding presence that morphed from fatherly to best drinking buddy and now to bald-faced interrogator. _

"_Yes," he finally says. It would be pointless to deny it, but wouldn't it beat all to make it through the physical fitness and the boatload of intelligence and psychological tests just to be denied at the last minute because his dad decided to play Ghandi in an earlier life._

_Alan would be pleased at the turn of events. _

_He should have never quit baseball. _

_Agent Rilke is flipping through a manilla file folder, his eyes are lowered but Don knows that the man is studying him, looking for a reaction. Don is uncertain if more of an answer is demanded of him. _

_Is he to be held accountable for the sins of his father?_

_Rilke makes a noise acknowledging Don's response, continues to peruse the file as if it is the New York Times and he has all day to work the crossword puzzle. In pen. _

"_Okay then," he finally says, closing the paperwork and then standing behind the desk. "It was nice to meet you, Don."_

"_Thank you, sir," Don answers, his heart sinking to his stomach because he didn't succeed in baseball and he has failed the FBI before he even has the chance to start. He shakes the man's hand and turns to walk out the door._

"_Eppes," Agent Rilke says. "Report to Quantico by the twenty-second." His smile is broad where his expression was nearly unreadable just moments before. _

"_Welcome to the FBI, son."_

oOo

Don convinced Alan that it was easier to hop on the El for fifteen blocks than lose the parking space that it took him twenty minutes to find. The sidewalk was too narrow for three people to walk side-by-side. Instead, he found it to be a strange turn of pace to be the one his parents were following until Margaret took him by the hand and slid her arm through his.

They talked sweet nothings: her cases, his father's new condo development, Charlie and the series of lectures he was completing at Princeton before returning to California. They skirt the issue of his job.

"Do you remember Professor Fleinhardt?"

Don nodded. It had been a while since he had met his brother's mentor at the graduation ceremony at Princeton but the eccentric man had made an impression on him, "Yeah, he roped Charlie into those talks?"

Alan answered, "Actually, Larry moved out to Pasadena while Charlie was in London. He just recruited your brother into accepting a professorship at CalSci."

His mother smiled happily and could see how excited both his parents were to have one son moving close by, "Moving home, huh?"

"Yes," Margaret said. "For the time being anyways. He hasn't had time too look for apartments and I think he's been having a rough time ever since he and Susan broke up."

"They did, did they?" Don wasn't surprised, knew long-distance almost never worked. At least, it had never worked for him. "So when is he getting back?"

Margaret rested her arm against his shoulder, her curls bouncing ever the slightest as they kept in step, her grip tightening as she scuffled on a crack in the cement. "Some time in early November he thinks. It won't be definite until he finishes a paper he's co-authoring with a Professor Jamison on something or other."

"He's always writing on something or other," Alan said good-naturedly. "It's what he does. And some day we just might understand what it's all about."

It was more of the manner in which his Dad said those words rather than the words themselves that gave Don reason to look back. Alan and Charlie had never been particularly close, not the way that he and Alan were. Charlie was loved deeply, yes, was the reason for more achievement celebrations in the Eppes house than Don, but came across as unknowable at times, mysterious as the esoteric equations that dotted the chalkboards that could be found anywhere from his bedroom to the attic and even the garage.

Don spoke in simple, familiar terms, played baseball, golf and hockey. He liked girls more than homework and had a sense of humor that revolved more around the gauche and sarcastic as opposed to pi and golden ratios.

Don had an uneasy feeling now that maybe his father felt not let down, but perhaps as betrayed as he with the way his life had gone. He looked again to his father and his broad smile, the easy gait and chatter. Betrayed maybe not, he pondered.

Maybe finally accepting...

oOo

_"You're what?"_

_Alan paces the length of the dining room only to turn around to give a look that bordered on explosion. His mother had on her blank lawyer expression and for a moment he wasn't sitting in a familiar missions-style chair but ready to give testimony for a frigid audience and a violent judge._

_He isn't looking directly at his parents as he tells them of his plans. He looks at the piano, his mother's wedding photo, nick-knacks that have collected over the years. He looks every where but at his father's deep red face, his mother's frantic, worried one._

_They tell you to never look directly into the sun._

_They say you'll go blind. _

_He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that if he can't keep his cool now, he'll never in the future where it will count even more. "I don't want to stay in the minors my whole life, Dad," he says. "My numbers aren't good enough for the pros and time isn't going to change that."_

_Margaret has been silent this whole time. Her face is white and her lower lip trembles, heavy with unspoken words, "But the FBI, Don..." _

_She swallows and for the briefest moment he nearly loses his resolve. But he can't now because he's stubborn and somehow, somewhere truly deep, he knows this is the right thing for him to do._

_"I'll be good at it," he says. "I'm fast. I've got good eyes and I'll be making a difference." He doesn't tell them that he has good aim, not only with a ball, but with a bullet as well and he throws the last bit in there because it is something Alan has drilled in him over his entire life. "I need to do this." _

_The air is tense and Don feels almost sick for doing this to his parents. But it's too late to go back now, even if he wanted, and it's the strangest feeling of liberation he has when he realizes he has bucked all expectations and is now preparing to forge his own way. And even more importantly, he doesn't want to go back._

_His father leaves the room, leaving behind a trail of frustration and misunderstanding. Margaret stands up and envelopes him in a hug that says she wants to never let him go. "He'll get over it, sweetie," she says. "But are you sure, Don? Are you really sure?"_

_He leans back a bit and brushes a curl away from her watery eyes. "I am, Mom." His tone is final and it even feels more right than he thought it could, "I really am."_

oOo

They stepped into the restaurant, an old converted firehouse that found new life as a Chicago themed pub. There are pictures of the City's proud sons covering the wall: Lieutenant Edward O'Hare in uniform and gold wings, Harrison Ford firing Han Solo's blaster, Mike Ditka pacing Soldier Field's sidelines and Michael Jordan soaring through thin air.

_City of the Big Shoulders…_

The waitress left them in a corner booth by a large paned-glass window with menus as reading material and dripping glasses of water with lemon slices balanced precariously on the side.

Don looked half-heartedly through the laminated papers. He already knew what he wanted and so instead dropped the lemon inside his glass and mashed it to a pulp with his straw. He watched the flakes rise and fall as he stirred the ice faster and faster. The sight was somehow mesmerizing and he found himself more tired than he realized.

He mentally added coffee to his order and let his gaze shift out the window. It was faintly overcast now, wind was beginning to kick up orange and yellow leaves off the sidewalk, twirling them down the street to only toss them recklessly aside to the gutter.

_Chicago in the fall. There's nothing like it._

The conversation had waxed and waned and now seemed to be at one of its lower points. Alan studied his menu closely, flipping between the pages, indecisive and pensive. And Margaret gave him thoughtful, baleful stares.

"Can't go wrong with the pulled roast beef," Don said. Quiet or conversation didn't matter much to him. He had ridden the Rangers team bus all the way to Portland without more than a 'hey, how ya doing?' more than once. Yet now the silence did nothing but discomfort. "They're pushing the _Stacker of Wheat_ angle."

"The great Carl Sandburg." The waitress had returned bearing too full glasses, ice splashing the sides, drops spattering here and there. She gave the trio a broad and toothy grin, setting the glasses in an uneven zig-zag in the center of the table. "We also have really good pulled pork barbeque that goes along with the _Hog Butcher of the World_. Or there's the ribs which are great but really messy. We also have a soup and salad combo, with either Potato or Minestrone. That is," she paused dramatically. "If you're ready to order."

oOo

_Don takes one last look in the mirror before he leaves the men's room. His chin has stopped bleeding from where he cut it shaving earlier and he's skated through so far without landing anything on his shirt. _

_Terry is waiting for him. She's leaning into the wall, twisting her hair back as she chatters with Victor and Jamie. They are graduating soon, their Quantico graduation is this Friday. Assignments have been announced and he is joining Fugitive Recovery and she will be heading west to Portland. _

_(She drawls it out as Ore-gonn when she told him earlier because she is from Kansas and doesn't know that the proper pronunciation is Or-gin, sharp and quick, a gunshot, a snap of thunder and lighting...) _

_There are several notebooks folded in her arms that she pulls tightly to her chest as they fall into step besides each other. Theirs is a comfortable relationship and Don knows he loves her. At first he wasn't sure if it was something she did or said, if its her hidden weakness for Wham! or her vivacity, maybe it was that she could lay him out on the mat during sparring sessions and isn't afraid to fight or play rough. Either way, she's pretty as hell with a wicked, dry sense of humor. _

_And he doesn't want to let her go._

_The buildings are proudly drab at Quantico, a perverse pleasure is taken in the monotony and no effort is put into making them more attractive. So instead they walk the grounds, finding a quiet bench hidden by oak and sycamore. His arms drift across the back of the wooden slats and Terry unconsciously leans into him._

_It is a beautiful day in Virginia and he can smell cherry blossoms and lilacs. He tips his head to be closer to hers and she giggles (he is amazed that tough and strong Terry can giggle like any other girl) as a squirrel dashes across the lawn, clutching a long-discarded sandwich between its teeth. _

_"Are you packed yet?" She asks him._

_"No," he says. "I'll ship a few things back with Mom and Dad when they come out. Sounds like I'll be moving around a lot."_

_She breathes softly, a sigh nearly escapes notice, "Hard to believe it's almost over."_

_"I'll miss you," he blurts, the words escape before he can think. He winces inwardly and hope he doesn't sound sad and desperate, like some Air Supply song._

_Her hand rests on his thigh, her thumb skates across the denim in a steady repetition. "I'll miss you too, Don."_

_"Do you think...?"_

_"Don, we've talked about this: me in Portland and you, God knows where..." Her voice is heavy with regret, "how will that work?" _

_He swallows tightly and something in him knows that this is the end for them. Telephone calls wouldn't be enough, they needed the safety of proximity and that would be over soon. _

_(Nights in a laundry mat with pizza and conversation with her sitting cross-legged on a washing machine and him showing her how to block a puck, she teaches him how to properly throw a frisbee. Her breath heavy with pepperoni and onions as they make out in the shielded corner, far from prying eyes, neon lights and large plate-glass windows.) _

_He squeezes her hand tightly, kisses her forehead before he walks away, "Well, I'll be seeing you Agent Lake."_

_She is so beautiful sitting there and he lets himself look at her one last time before he crests the top of the hill. _

_"Good-bye Don," she says and once again he finds himself saying so-long to something he loves._

oOo

"It shouldn't take long..."

"Go on, sweetie," Margaret said. "We'll just wait for you here."

He blushed slightly at the endearment and raised his eyebrows as he left the main foyer for the elevators. He had thought briefly about pushing for visitors passes, but both his parents assured him they would be fine on their own and if he didn't see them there later, they'd be waiting for him at the bar down the street.

Don was relieved at that, didn't truly like the collision of his two worlds: family and FBI. It was too strange, much too polar opposite for him to be comfortable with. _Donna Reed serving dinner to John McClane,_ he thought.

The elevator was empty save for him and he rapidly pushed the button to close the doors before any stragglers found there way in. He was tired, he was drained and damn it all if he had to admit that for once in his life the normal pace, innocent topics of Charlie and the weather was exactly what he needed.

_It was nice to see happy lives out there besides all the crime._

_It was nice to see he was apart of one. _

He went to a floor higher than he normally did. With Bonheur out for an indeterminate amount of time, Don would report to Warren's superior, a Candice Collins. She was a tall woman with a commanding air and the _cojones _that took her further into the boy's club than other female agents.

The phone was balanced between her shoulder and her ear as she waved Don in the office, her dark mocha hair was pulled back and pinned low showing off a long amber neck and almost suggestive cleavage. He took a seat in the chair on the left in front of the broad desk and waited as she spoke quietly, half turning so her back was nearly facing him.

"...So we're looking at WitSec then... Right. Exactly." She gave Don a brief acknowledgement, her index finger wobbled at him and he figured the conversation on the line was steadily coming to a close. "Yes, I've spoken with him and I say that I agree. Well, get that ball rolling and put it on the agenda. It still needs to get cleared by Jimmy Chase. Well thank you, Alex. I'll let him know."

The phone call ended with a click as she placed the receiver back on the cradle. Her hand was busy making notes in the large daily planner that laid open on the desk, "When I was younger and more naive, I never knew it was paperwork and meetings that made the world go 'round." Candice gave a small laugh and held out her hand toward the forms Don had in hand. "I take it this is everything?"

He passed them across the desk and she started flipping through them, looking for crossed t's and dotted i's.

"Yeah, we left copies in Winnebago and they sent duplicates of theirs." He made a brief motion indicating the extra and unfamiliar yellow and pink carbon copies. He stole a look at his watch, hoped this wouldn't take much longer than a standard debrief.

"Looks like it's all here," she said. The chair didn't creak as she leaned back and pulled her red framed glasses from her face. "You did good out there, you and Agent Cooper. Warren called and he's putting you both up for commendation. Have to say that I agree."

Don was numb, heard her words and heard himself thanking her. He went into a more official summation, adding color to the black and white text that Director Collins held in her hands. He told her about the apartment, about finding the doll and hearing the shatter of broken glass. He didn't tell her about the look of terror on Krista's face as he chased after them, the sting on his face as he rolled on the ground to catch her. He doesn't tell her how two tiny hands held onto him and wouldn't let him go.

"Agent Eppes," she started. "Have you considered leaving Fugitive Recovery?"

He had half tuned her out at this point, words of praise were not what he wanted to hear, from either her or his parents waiting downstairs. But as he tried to reconcile what she just said with how pleased she said she was even he could see that something did not quite add up.

"What?"

"This was not your area of expertise yet you handled the situation and the press with decorum," Collins head cocked to the side and she raised an eyebrow in a most effective way. "You're sharp, you make the right moves and Bonheur has consistently given you positive reviews. I shouldn't have to tell you what a remarkable achievement that is since the man thinks he's goddamn Patton reincarnate."

Don twitched a grin at that.

"There's a tactical instructor position opening up at Quantico and I would like you to take it." Candice leaned forward, a modest gold tennis bracelet rested at her pulse point. Her voice was thick and smooth like honey and he couldn't help but wonder when he landed in Oz.

"And maybe your own field office after that..."

oOo

_He is running as fast as he can, half covered in mud and shouting, looking like a crazy man as he hightails it through the woods. The fugitive he is chasing is fast, an athlete even with suspected night vision as he makes quick work of the slippery trail before him._

_Don has already fallen once, is catching up and herding the man to where he knows Steven is waiting with the truck and back-up that's been called in, who are even now echoing through the the piece in his ear. _

_Being an FBI agent is far from glamorous he decides. The rain is only falling harder, his knees sore from when they slammed to the ground. He is freezing his ass off here in the woods. Don decides he will write a letter to Paramount, Scorsese and Coppola and let them know how wrong they've got it. _

_He is a newbie, stuck with the dirty gopher work. What he'd give for someone to ask him to fetch some coffee._

_Anything had to be better than this._

_They are getting closer, he knows it. There is a log half-lying on the trail, and instead of skirting it, he jumps over with practice and rounds the bend to only see Zane kneeling over their runner, looking impossibly dry, chewing his gum and has a look that thanks Don for finally deciding to join them. _

_God, there are times he just hates this._

_The man is cursing and even surprises Don a little with the creativity of the profanity coming from his mouth. Zane shuts him up with a growl and passes him over to the back-up that is fresher and willing to haul the slime-ball in._

_After all, the dirty work has already been done._

_Don stands there in the rain, it is coming down impossibly hard and he hopes that it will clean off whatever it is he has landed in. The Suburban roars to life and he realizes then his teeth are chattering and he's shivering almost violently. He hopes he has a chance to change into something dry soon, hopes Zane __gives__ him the chance to change into something dry soon. _

_His hand rests on the door handle, the rain is so thick he can barely see the interior of the SUV. He will sit on the floor, he decides. He will sit on the floor and hope Zane will not get pissy about the carpet or upholstery. _

_The plastic garbage bags covering the seat surprise him. The towel resting on the dashboard shocks him even more. _

_"Waiting for Christmas, Eppes?" Zane says. "Get your ass in here."_

_Don climbs in and has never been more thankful. The jacket he peels off and lets fall into another waiting bag. The heat has been cranked as far as it can go and the vents are humming happily. _

_The trip out of Yellowstone is long, the road nothing more than two deeply gutted ruts that the tires fall into at random. Don toes off his boots, his filthy gray socks and is glad the Ranger station is not too far ahead._

_The radio plays softly, a sad saxophone and trumpet that try so very hard to be jazz, but never quite make it. Zane peers intently through the windshield, his amused smirk firmly in place._

_"You did alright today, probie," he says. "You did alright."_

oOo

He walked quickly along the sidewalk, cars driving by quickly, people rushing by, impersonal and isolated. He cannot believe what has just happened. Cannot believe that he's been handpicked for something like this_. A tac instructor. His own field office. Special Agent in Charge_...

He liked the sound of that, _SAC Eppes_. Never thought this was a way for him through the ranks, had always figured it be something closer to Zane, a ghost spoken of in reverent whispers and skeptical admiration, a Lone Ranger riding off into the sunset.

_Special Agent in Charge Don Eppes_.

The neon lights of a convenience store distract him. The sight of his reflection causes him to pause. _Time for a haircut. _September winds had picked up behind him and played with the edges of his jacket, the tails of his shirt. His pants hung looser than he remembered and the split lip still hadn't fully healed. Honestly, he looked like crap. How his parents had refrained from fussing and force-feeding him, he didn't know.

Alan was sitting at the bar nursing a Goose Island microbrew when he walked in, REO Speedwagon drifting over the patrons. Don sidled up next to his father, the basket of popcorn moved in front of his face.

"How'd it go?"

Don paused from tossing the kernels back, waved the bartender down, "Not too bad. They promised to not call me in before next Monday, so things are looking up." He looked around, the place faintly buzzing, still early enough in the day to not reach its peak. "Where's Mom?"

"Went to the Starbucks," Alan motioned towards the doors and due east. "Wanted a mocha something or other. Said we'd pick her up once we were done here."

The barkeep set a cold one next to the half-empty basket, Don toyed with the label before taking a sip. _Fortify thyself, for thou hast yet a perilous journey before thee..._

"Can't tell you how surprised we were to see you on tv…" Alan started.

Don could see both their reflections in the mirror, both of them not looking at the other, _this was a conversation to elude eye-contact._ "Wasn't exactly planned."

"That's what I figured." His father let out a long breath, "She gonna be okay?"

Don looked up, smoothed his hand down over his lower face and then spoke, "I hope so. She's my boss's niece, the whole reason why we were even on the case in the first place. They thought her mom was gonna pull through last I checked. S'what I'm hoping for anyways."

Alan hitched a breath, "Are _you_ okay?"

The song had been _Riding the Storm Out_ and it somehow never seemed more appropriate to him. His fingernail steadily worked at the gummy label, had nearly a quarter of it off by then. He considered his father's question, considered that for the first time in a while that this wasn't a _what were you thinking when you joined the FBI_ argument. His Dad was concerned and he was okay with that.

He considered his response, knew a canned _I'm good_ wouldn't cut it. They were both on neutral territory and bar protocol demanded honesty.

"Give me a few days," Don finally said. "Friday by the latest."

Alan gave a small chuckle and finished off his beer, "Sure enough, tough guy. Seems reasonable."

They sat like that for a while, listening to familiar AOR and enjoying the peace and relative quiet before they stood in unison and Alan insisted on paying for the drinks, drawing out his wallet and handing over a couple of bills before Don could. They left the smoky haze behind, heading towards a sweeter smelling place.

"Don…"

"Yeah?"

Alan tentatively rested a hand on his shoulder, "I'll be the first to admit that I haven't been giving you the easiest time the last couple of years."

Don ducked his head, "Dad, please…"

"No, Don," he said. "I haven't been fair to you." He paused, his voice cracking and skating away in the wind. "I want you to know, I'm proud of you, Don. And not just because of all this…"

Their eyes met briefly and a flicker of acknowledgement (_understanding, relief, respect) _passed between the two men.

The sun is responsible for so much more than blindness and sunburn, Don knew. It was there to bring life, to illuminate the darkness, to signal the start of a new beginning, a sign that the storm has finally subsided and so Noah can finally walk of that damn ark instead of floating out in the void.

"You've done good, Donnie." He pulled his son into a hug, Don's back stiffened, his arms hung at his side not sure of what to do with them and Alan not caring for a moment if he embarrassed him, "You've done good."


	10. Sunlight on a Broken Column

A/N - Hey all. I apologize again for taking so long with this update. I'm a terrible person who is nearly bouncing off the walls right now that we're having a new Numb3rs episode tonight.

On the knitting front, you'll all be happy to know that I've learned how to do cables. They are awesome and very fun to do.

I would like to dedicate this chapter to all those who like their Don with a little Charlie too. And just so you know, there are slight spoilers for Vector here.

* * *

"_**Ch-Chewie! I can't see, pal. What's going on…? Luke? Luke's crazy! He can't even take care of himself, much less rescue anybody… A Jedi Knight? Jeez, I'm out of it for a little while, everyone gets delusions of grandeur…"**_

_- Han Solo (Harrison Ford) to Chewbacca the Wookie (Peter Mayhew). Return of the Jedi, 1983._

* * *

**Saturday, November 21, 1998**

**Amtrak Silver Star No. 92**

**Somewhere between Philadelphia and Quantico**

oOo

Professor Charles Eppes unconsciously bounced his foot in rhythm to the steady thump of the tracks as he studied the rapidly approaching and fastly disappearing telephone poles along the line southwesterly towards Quantico, Virginia.

The knuckles of his hand were white as they held tight to the handle of the unfamiliar leather briefcase, half-certain the contents, if spilled, would spell out his doom more surely than when he left his brother's catcher's mitt floating in the koi pond back in seventh grade.

The rapidly falling barometric pressure and the increase of humidity and precipitation sparked the ghost of that once-upon-a-time bruise on his shoulder that he rubbed thoughtfully as he considered the results of his project nearing completion. The lights along the track way flashed as his mind shot through troop movements in Bosnia and Kosovo and the pull of those resources on those rapidly deployed for Operation Strong Support in Central America.

He fumbled for the pen he knew to be in his front pocket, easily forgetting the train's destination and losing himself to adapted migration patterns and correlation matrices. The young professor's expression gleamed a little brighter as he traced the shimmery pattern through his mind's eye.

_Who knew how beautiful the quality function deployment approach was ending up to be?_

The preceding thought was immediately followed by one that he felt he probably should have know the answer too, but his brother wasn't there and it seemed Charlie had forgotten to wear a wrist watch yet again.

Twisting at the waist, he looked to his right and then over the front of his seat. There were no passengers immediately adjoining him and so, checked to the rear. A middle aged man, seemingly tall with a soft form was buried in a Tom Clancy two rows behind.

Charlie gave a small wave and a quiet 'hi,' all the while, pointing to his wrist in question. The man looked up and bore a striking resemblance to his professor–mentor at Cambridge. The Not-Professor shouted perhaps a little too loud and Charlie thanked him in turn and wrinkled his nose as he sat back down.

He hated Professor Braceton. _Stupid, arrogant, son-of-a-bitch. _The man was consistently ineloquent as de Broglie was at discussing particle motion and inelastic scattering at the legendary 1927 Solvay Congress, always appearing the fool before modern-day Wolfgang Paulis and leaving Charlie with constant feeling of academic superiority that the younger man did not try very hard to stuff down with a façade of humility.

It was too bad he had to leave Susan behind in England, she was British through and through and had no desire to live forever in the _Colonies_. So he had been left with a hard separation and lonely nights, but had never been so relieved to hear the familiar New Jersey drawl asking if he wanted his 'cauw-fee' decaf or no.

He just couldn't enthusiastically get behind high tea.

The pen tapped steadily on his forehead, recalling today's date and Bob Tompkins request for the data by that Monday. The NSA director had been more than happy enough to know his consultant would be staying five miles out of a Marine Corp base and under the roof of an FBI agent and be close enough to drop by on his way back to Washington.

Charlie was counting on Bob to be discreet because the odds of keeping his NSA involvement from his brother while they were under the same roof was about the same as him proving the Birch and Swinnerton-Dyer Conjecture once and for all.

And right after that, he'd get started on P versus NP.

It was a little after ten that morning when he had boarded the Dinky out of Princeton Junction, leaving Einstein's ghost behind with two duffle bags, a laptop case and the leather satchel taking their roles as his travel companions. The Amtrak ride to Philadelphia lasted only a little over half an hour and gave him plenty of time to catch a taxi to make a luncheon with a Princeton classmate who was working at an assistant-professorship at Rutgers.

Since his return from England at the end of August, Charlie had been prepping for his move back to the West Coast. He had caught up with old friends from college, eager and surprised that the years spent across the ocean had placed him on equal adult standing with his peers and left him with a confidence that felt welcome yet a bit unfamiliar. He still looked too young at times to be teaching classes all his own, but the publication and acceptance of the Eppes Convergence gave him the giant to stand on that he had been searching for.

Now he was looking forward to settling down with the familiar, going back home and spending time with his mother, to finally have a shot at getting to know his father, having the Californian sun opposed to English rain and scones.

_If only he felt more certain about the next few days…_

Charlie had to admit he had finally grown comfortable in his skin, though not completely ready or familiar with spending time with his brother.

He and Don had drifted apart, partly because they were physically pushed away. Mostly because, as Charlie now understood, Don would rather do (_play, participate, compete_) while he liked to study (_research, scrutinize, analyze_). He found their present occupations ironically metaphorical of his revelation.

_It was when his brother gave up baseball for the FBI that he realized he never really knew him, could never properly predict the erraticism that was Don._

After he and William had finished their Philly cheese steaks and exchanged current contact information, Charlie had three hours and eight minutes according to the train schedule to contemplate what he and Don could do the next several days together before he left for California.

He had not originally planned on spending time with Don. Not because he didn't miss his brother, but mostly because it hadn't ever occurred to him. Instead, Don had called him, said that they were on the same side of the country for the first time since they graduated high school and that maybe since Don was missing Thanksgiving at home, they could spend a few days together.

The good-natured tone, the familiar warmth of his brother's voice was a surprise and the invitation flattering. It wasn't until later, after he had talked with Margaret that he supposed that maybe his parents still weren't above arraigning play dates between the two of them.

At least it was a step up from tagging along with Don to after school baseball practice on days when both Dad and Mom had to work late.

Charlie settled back on the seat and pulled the headphones and discman out of his backpack, untangled the wires and started the music as he refocused his intent on troop movements on the other side of the world.

oOo

He pulled into the nearly cleared parking lot, there was an Escort parked three spaces over and a Tahoe another two down. The dark Wrangler idled for a few moments before he shut it down completely, cutting short Don McLean, only to turn the key once again to check the time.

_Can music save your mortal soul?_

The paper coffee cup was cradled in his hands, the heat not quite so harsh as it originally was. Don sipped at it, the warmth pushing back the chill of a twilight hour Saturday night in November. Later, he decided, he would dig through his cupboards and find something to make it Irish, _very Irish_. Yet for now, Don was early, the train wasn't scheduled to arrive for another fifteen minutes, yet leaning back in the dark vehicle was comfortable, _familiar,_ as he waited for Charlie. He had yet to break vampiric odd-hour habits.

It had been nearly a month since he'd left Chicago, close to two weeks since he'd settled into his new position at Quantico. Director Collins had been true to her word so far, the current DAAT instructor was retiring in December and Don was taking over in the interim until a more permanent instructor could be found. And then...

_And then, SAC Eppes…_

Most his mornings were spent in the classrooms going through theory and instruction. He found it to be dry and cruelly necessary, wondered many times how his brother could do something like that as his living. His feet were restless and spent mornings pacing across the linoleum tile floor as he spoke, the chalkboard sat mostly unused as he rattled last minute points from his old lecture notes and secretly wished for some body to run down.

Afternoons tended more towards the interesting. Defense And Arrest Techniques went from two to three hours, burned off energy by throwing around the yet-to-be-minted agents. Some were slow, much too slow to be safe out on the field and either dropped out or found a desk investigative job to be more pertinent. A few were high adrenaline junkies who shook off the hits they took and rebounded as fast as they could get back up. The tall (_hot_) and sassy brunette took down not only the play-acting perp, but her partner as well.

It was all he could do to keep a straight face and not laugh his ass off.

Firearms training was a mixed bag – he could count the number of times he felt safe enough to remove his protective gear on one hand. But to be fair, he could see improvement as groupings grew tighter and head shots permanently migrated to northern latitudes from the netherlands.

_Still didn't stop Nervous Guy from nearly shooting his damn foot off yesterday._

Don opened the car door and took a step down on the cracked and oil-stained pavement. The yellow diagonal parking lines had faded to almost nothing but a few lonely chips of paint. There was a far off train whistle. Or, as he glanced down the tracks, wishful thinking on his part.

The station there at Quantico wasn't much to look at, a plain-fronted beige building with poorly lit cheap cracker-jack lighting, leaving either dead bulbs or erratically flickering ones. There were a few vending machines and a taxi and car rental service. Both desks were dark now, as was the ticket station at the far end.

There was a line of wood-slated benches that faced the glass doors and panels where passengers were let off. He took a seat by the exit sign closest to his car, certain that with the flow off traffic he would not miss his brother.

That was of course, if Charlie remembered to get off.

It was eleven years distant, a random Friday night where Margaret kicked _the boys_ out of the house for her book club meeting. Don vaguely remembered the topic as Kafka and the imagined horror of The Metamorphosis, with the poor bug-man dying with a rotting apple stuck in his back.

He remembered thinking that some parents never figured their children out _ever_.

Alan bought tickets to see the Kings play in the Forum. The team pre-dated Anaheim's Mighty Ducks by nearly thirty years and lived out in Inglewood. Don wore his blue jersey with the crown on front and Alan bought cheesy nachos and root beer from the concession stand. Charlie tagged along and scribbled in a battered notebook and soliloquized on about _sliding friction_, _momentum_ and someone called Le Chatelier.

It took everything he had to not tell him to shut the hell up and enjoy the game.

Don remembered the Kings losing, remembered leaving and trying to grab his brother before he slipped away to look at the zamboni because _the ice rink was made of hexagonal ice, Don. And Mr. Davis said that there were eight other allotropes and how great would it be to see if the zamboni could make those too…?_

But the crowd was too big and Charlie too small and he wormed away before he could be stopped and it was another hour later before they found him again in the locker room with a souvenir hockey stick covered with second-string autographs.

Alan was more relieved than mad and bought ice cream as a lousy attempt at a bribe to keep the _"We lost Charlie again but its okay because we found him without even having to call the police"_ situation from Margaret.

He knew it wasn't his fault Charlie disappeared. But knowledge and belief are two different things and even all these years later Don knew he'd have to answer if he didn't have a math professor accounted for soon.

His life reeked of foreshadowing and felt the whole thing seemed to somehow confirm that he would be trying to play catch up with his brother forever.

Don slouched low against the seat and gazed at the travel posters that advertised the Lincoln Memorial and the rest of D.C. He wouldn't be going home for Thanksgiving like his mother had been pestering him about. With the recent move and the new position, a trip to Pasadena now would be unfeasible. Maybe for a Chanukah-Christmas though…

Margaret had been ecstatic about his move, about him leaving fugitive recovery behind, what might come out of it. Yet he broke the Thanksgiving news slowly and with dropped hints to gently break his remaining on the Eastern seaboard. They understood, of course. And Alan joked that he was purposely avoiding Aunt Irene and her marshmallow sweet potato monstrosity of _death_.

Don couldn't help but think his father wasn't far off from the truth.

He traded Chicago for Dumfries, Virginia. It was small and quiet, mostly consisted of Marines and their families who chose to live off-base. He had a small two-bedroom set three blocks off the main road, comfortable though not terribly impressive: the lawn was small and decorated with brown grass and desiccated leaves, the garage large enough for the Wrangler and not much else. The ranch's siding was a grayish blue, with an almost-porch that extended past the door to shelter enough concrete for a couple of patio chairs. It wasn't home, not yet anyways. But it would do.

The moving company had come a day later than promised, held up by a snowstorm in Indiana and left boxes piled in the kitchen and living room, a few more had made their way to the bedrooms. They set the bed frame, though the mattresses still leaned against the far wall. It would be a little while before things would be as they should.

Don had found his coffee maker and the filters easily, they were in the medium-sized box that use to hold frozen pizza. The coffee was a bit trickier. He thought he had put it in with the coffee maker, but found it four days later buried under bathroom towels and toothpaste and remembered how much of a bastard Billy could truly be when he wanted to.

In the mean time, he had spent a day and a half getting stinking drunk and another two recovering from the hangover from hell after he heard that Janine Anderson would be spending the rest of her life in a wheelchair.

After that, it took him nearly two weeks to unpack, side tracked by meetings and orientations. It was Homecoming and the first day of school all in one. He remembered an English teacher who liked to quote Tolstoy or Dostoyevsky and said the great author (_which ever one he was_) thought all stories were about going back home or arriving some place new. It was when he stood behind the desk looking at his class (_his class_) that he felt stuck somewhere between the two.

A steady thrum and two quick horn blasts broke his reverie. The concrete rumbled under his feet and a quick-silver blur morphed into a stopping train. He glanced at his watch again and figured he'd give his brother a few minutes before hunting him down. He smiled a little at the thought of maybe the train conductor should have pinned a note to the front of Charlie's shirt, something along the lines of _"please be sure I get off in Virginia no matter how dazed and busy I appear to be."_

Don knew from experience that a math professor could get lost in less than that time. A family trip years before the Kings' game fiasco to an airshow left him running through hangers and between grounded planes, his heart threatening to burst from his chest as he hoped that Indiana Jones didn't have a monopoly on saving the day.

Charlie was found sitting on a packing crate and eating a Nestlé's Crunch bar and expounding on air currents and how Bernoulli's principle got more press time than the Kutta-Joukowski theorem to a disinterested mechanic.

Don glanced at his watch one last time before he crossed his hands behind his head and his feet at the ankles, letting his back melt into the bench and his eyes lower to half mast while he waited for his brother.

oOo

The steam lifted up off the tracks in a möbius strip pattern that kept falling back on itself as it continued rising. This particular one was chiral to a counterclockwise direction and brought to mind a lecture, or perhaps it was simply a conversation with Larry Fleinhardt who had quoted some poet who claimed that Euclid alone looked on beauty bare.

The dancing half-twist with its zero Gaussian curvature took little to convince Charlie that perhaps this one poet had it right.

He fixed both backpack straps before swinging the briefcase over his shoulders, the strap inconsiderately catching on the zipper of the Jansport. Leaning over the seat, he took one last look out the window at the steadily dropping rain, wishing briefly that he had not forgot his umbrella at Heathrow in London.

It was only he and an older woman who made their way down the steps and off onto the cement platform. He dragged his bags behind him, stopping only when he made it under the overhang, finding the first door he tried to be locked, relieved when the second one pulled open.

He squinted slightly in the strange dimness of the large room. The woman had been met by a Marine whom he supposed was her son at the affectionate hug and chaste kiss she gave his cheek. Charlie scanned the other way and saw Don slowly amble up to him, his face drawn with an easy smile and an unfamiliar darkness in his eyes that he hadn't remembered from before.

"Charlie," he said, grabbing his brother's hand and pulling him into a quick hug before releasing him. "How're you doing?"

The duffle bags landed on the floor on either side of him, the one on the right smashing on top his foot. _Damn 'Linear Methods of Applied Mathematics.' _He shook his foot out and shoved the bag away, "Good, Don. I'm good."

A phone rang and Charlie made a desperate pass over his pants pockets only to see Don answer his own cell, turn around and walked a couple of yards away. It was a terse conversation, punctuated with tones that had Charlie inwardly wincing and hoping that this wouldn't spoil his brother's mood.

It ended just as quickly with Don almost marching back, his eyes looking like a storm before they seemingly blanked and a neutral expression set across his face.

"Everything's okay?" Charlie asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Everything's fine," he said in way that caused Charlie to wonder when Don had become such a bad liar. "It's just that people can be really stupid, Chuck," he finished softly, almost wistfully.

Charlie made a move to pick up his bags but Don hefted one duffle on his shoulder and then picked up the other one in his hand, wincing slightly at the weight, "You pack like a girl, Professor."

"I pack like a man whose been living out of a suitcase for the last week and a half, Special Agent," he replied. It had been a little longer than that since he packed his things up, but a little less than that since he had shipped it all to California. He had spent more time in the laundromat the past week than he had almost the past month considering most of the items he kept with him were text books and papers. "You've got a washer and dryer at your place, don't you?"

"You're offering to do my laundry, Chuck?" Don grinned, the tightness on his face lightening and easing ever so slightly. "That's awful nice of you."

They paused at the door as Don fished his keys out of his pocket. "Ready?" he asked Charlie, motioning for the mad dash through the rain they had ahead of them.

"You could pull the car up for me," Charlie said, making his best effort to slump his shoulders and to prey on Don's better nature. "Have only one of us get wet?"

Don raised a brow, considered his brother's proposition just long enough for Charlie to think that it might be possible. "Yeah, no," he said finally. Don hefted the one bag up further on his shoulder and leaned his shoulder against the door, cracking it open slightly. "Cowboy up, Charlie."

Charlie sighed with familiar exasperation, considered shielding his head with the briefcase to only change his mind at the last second to hold it firmly under his coat as he tried to dodge some of the larger puddles to only look up with surprise as he realized that somehow Don had already managed to not only reach the truck, but loaded the baggage and start the car as well.

He had forgotten how fast his brother was.

Don had the door open and waiting for him as he tossed the backpack in the rear seat, stashing the satchel near his feet. "That's cold," he shivered, rubbing his arms and shifting half the vents towards him.

"You're soft," Don answered quickly and without malice as he turned up the fans. "You want to grab a bite to eat or head straight to my place?"

"The events are mutually exclusive?"

Don laughed a little, "They are when I haven't had time to get groceries. Or we could always call out for pizza."

Charlie liked this, liked this banter with his brother that had been too uncommon growing up and too long distance as of late. He kicked the briefcase under his seat, letting it fall back behind a newspaper Don must have forgotten under there.

"Dinner sounds good," he said. "Coffee would be nice. Anything good around here?"

"Anything good around here…" Don snorted. "Charlie, this is a Marine base. Numerous FBI agents live just a few miles down the road. If there was one place in the world outside of Mom's kitchen that can make a good strong cup of coffee, this is it."

"A college campus around midterms or finals?"

"A good cup of coffee, Charlie," Don said patiently. "I said good coffee."

Charlie shrugged. It honestly didn't matter to him. He had a feeling that maybe this wouldn't be as difficult as he first theorized.

_At least Don hadn't threatened him with a noogie yet…_


	11. More Distant and More Solemn

A/N – Hey all, thanks to all of you who review and who keep reading. Again I apologize for such a gap in between postings. My father had a heart attack scare and things have been crazy since than. He's okay though, just needs to stop working so much and stressing himself out.

I swear on the soul of my dearly departed childhood dog, Spunkamas Blue Boy Delight, that this was entirely plotted and mostly written before _Checkmate_ aired.

* * *

"_**Who made this?"**_

"_**Me. Why?"**_

"_**Well, the wings are a bit thin."**_

"_**Forgive me if all my years in advanced applied mathematics take issues with that assessment."**_

"_**Well, forgive me if all my years in high school detention say I'm right."**_

_- Don Eppes (Rob Morrow) to Charlie Eppes (David Krumholtz). Soft Target, Numb3rs Season Two._

* * *

**November 23, 1998**

**Quantico, Virginia**

**Hogan's Alley**

oOo

Adjusting the ski mask to more properly fit his face increased the field of view as he stepped up silently and shoved the gun to the woman's head. The motion stopped her and the crowd of armor-vested agents making their way to the front doors. The black wool was wonderful to start, what with borderline freezing temperatures and a steady gusting wind. Now that he was in the bank's interior with adrenaline ramping, it was becoming uncomfortably warm and scratchy.

He figured it was only right. It was Monday after all.

"I told you to get the hell away," he shouted over terrified mutterings of the hostages and the negotiator's bullhorn as he dragged her across the bank's main lobby to a shielded space behind the teller's counter.

Her breath was hitching in her chest and her arms were instinctively grabbing at him to try to pull away until he motioned for her to kneel down out of sight. She complied, brushing her hands through her bottle-red hair in effort to repair the chaos driven pony-tail.

He shrugged his shoulders in apology and his hostage gave him a small wink of forgiveness.

"You're having way too much fun with this, Eppes," she hissed.

The floor was a shabby multi-industrial gray tile designed to hide dirt and stains and the walls a suspicious shade of green, not freshly mowed grass, but more aged due to time and wear. (_Not to mention the same color as an ER to hide things like blood spatter and random gore._) Along the far wall from where Don was hiding, huddled ten hostages, men and women varying in age from early twenties to mid-fifties. Most said nothing but hushed whispers while one older gentleman calmly flipped through the Washington Post.

Damn. There were days he just loved his job.

"You can't tell me that you haven't been looking forward to this," he whispered as he handed her an extra gun that he had hidden under his heavy jacket.

"This isn't exactly fair, you know. Will they even see this coming?"

"Ehhh… Probably not but…"

"But it's fun, right?" She double checked the ammo and waited for his signal. "Yes, Patty Hearst is my hero and I love nothing more than playing paintball when I should be at home dragging out all the crap my mother-in-law _bequeathed -"_ her sarcasm was heavy and unmistakable, layered over carefully with not-quite-respected distain. "- us before she gets here tomorrow."

"Here's your chance to burn your urge to kill before she gets here, Miriam."

Miriam Reilly, the tomboyish thirty-something firearm instructor looked at Don with baleful eyes and a sigh at the inevitable. She seemed ready to respond when the bullhorn blared out another warning for them to give themselves up and release the hostages.

"Hell no!" he shouted.

Don raised his eyebrows and Miriam hid her gun out of sight as they both stood, Don's arm around her with his gun pressed to her head. She wasn't much shorter than him with a muscular frame and served as an effective body shield. "Now if you don't back away from the door, I'm gonna blow her head off."

That seemed to cause the agents out front to scurry in some sort of action as they backed a few paces up. Miriam twisted around and muttered, "And I'm the one with violent urges?"

"Realism, Reilly." They crouched back behind the counter again, Don's smile read a little sheepish, "Have you ever spent any length of time with someone who likes to do fractal geometry for fun?"

Her face dawned with comprehension, "That's right. You said your brother was in town. How's that going?"

Don peeked out over the top and made quick hand signals to the other two gunmen taking shelter behind large pillars on the bank's floor. He knelt back down again, double-checking his gun and his watch. "Well, not too bad. Took him for a tour yesterday and today I _was_ going to pick him up for a late lunch. If we ever get out of here."

"Rookies," she sighed.

"Yeah, rookies," Don echoed.

Her shoulder nudged his as the standoff dragged on, one painfully slow moment after another, "How's the teaching been going for you?"

He shrugged again as they both paused to listen to the negotiator. Mark Gallagher picked up the shouted threats where Don had left off. _This wasn't going anywhere,_ he thought. And after another moment, he answered her question, "Hell of a lot different than FR. Not use to having this much of a schedule in a long time."

"Yeah, but it has to beat living on the road over ten months of the year."

"It wasn't all that bad. Something new every day. Nothing like this with lesson plans and all… You like being an instructor?" A few months before, it might have been a flippant question, but now he was genuinely curious. And it was an easy question to ask of Miriam. She was trustworthy and easy-going and had been around enough to know what not to ask. "You like nine to five?"

"I never thought I would. Never thought I _wanted to_," she amended. "But I have two kids and I can go to all of Andrea's ballet recitals and Eric's soccer games and sleep eight hours a night without being called out to talk down some crazy psycho. Adam is a big fan too. It just works, you know?"

"Fair enough," Don said. He looked at her intently, a grin pulling his lips upward, "So what do you plan to tell Adam when you get home from work tonight? 'It wasn't a terribly busy day at the office, dear. What we did? Oh we only took a few hostages, paint-balled and tear gassed a few recruits. You know, the usual.'"

She snorted, "He's going to be so jealous. I bet he'd love to take the English faculty out and paintball the tenured staff. From what he says, academic politics is a load of backstabbing crap. He submitted his tenure packet two months ago and there's still debate."

"That's too bad," he answered, his mind somewhat lost in what she said. He had never wondered before what avenues his brother had to navigate in the upper echelons of higher education. He seriously doubted though if Charlie would ever need to submit a tenure packet due to his genius. Or if he did, it'd merely be a formality.

From what he understood and gleaned from his brother's visit so far, nine or ten universities were tripping over each other to grab him for their staff. He was fairly certain that Pasadena, family and Larry Fleinhardt were the game winning points for CalSci. No other school held that sort of allure for his brother.

He returned his attention back to the negotiation process. From what he heard now, he hadn't missed much and wasn't terribly surprised by it. This whole exercise was conducted with very green trainees in a rude _"kids, this ain't Hollywood"_ sort of way. It also served as practice for Don since he would not only help coordinate these sort of things, but soon enough, be running his own.

It had also inadvertently been the most fun he'd had on the job in a long while.

Don had a feeling that this was beginning to come to a close. He could hear Gallagher and Ty Walters come to a point of surrendering Miriam as hostage. Or at least what the newbies thought was surrender. The plan was rather sneaky and under-handed, but it happened to all of them at one point or another and better now than later with criminals who really wanted to kill.

"You ready, Patty?" he asked as he pulled off the ski mask, revealing his sweaty face. His coat was graced with exceptionally large pockets and pulled out limp rubbery plastic and tossed to her.

"Oh ya, you betcha, Comrade Che," she drawled in an overly thick _Fargo_ accent. Miriam struggled with the awkward straps on the gas mask, her breathing going Darth Vader when it came on. Her voice was muffled when she asked how she looked.

"Ever seen _The Fly_?"

She groaned and answered in a whisper as she swatted his thigh, "I _hate _that movie. I _still_ have nightmares about vomit-drop every time I see Jeff Goldblum."

"Traumatized much?"

"Try high school boyfriend who loved horror films and Geena Davis…"

They both stopped their quiet conversation as Ty shouted, "Okay, we're sending her out now."

All four of them exchanged looks, Miriam with Gallagher to Don and then back to a largely smirking Walters. They all tipped their heads in a way that seemed to say, _this was gonna be good,_ while all three men pulled out their own masks to do their own Brundle fly impression.

Miriam let her hair down from the pony-tail, letting it fall easily over her face as she ducked her head and hid the ugly mask behind her hands, looking like she was weeping. The exercise had been kept realistic as possible so the trainees wouldn't be shocked by her reaction.

The three men kept her in view with the paint guns pointed at her back as she exited the building. She stumbled as crossed the threshold and let two small gray canisters tumble out in front of her.

The area erupted in clouds of white smoke as Don pushed his way through the doors, firing red paint balls next to Reilly as she pulled out her own gun. The five recruits were doubled over coughing, firing off random paint pellets in a rainbow of identifying colors.

oOo

_It was almost there… Eppes drives it up the lane…_

_He shoots… He…_

The combination of the door bell and a steady repetition of knuckles on the front door was enough to jar Charlie's fingers from the Nintendo 64 game controller. The ball bounced off the hoop and his player was still splayed out on the court as the computer's team took off down the other way. He groaned as he paused the game, it had taken him nearly the whole morning to get halfway through the tourney and he'd have to keep at it if he wanted to obliterate Don's high score.

_Things hadn't changed much since that Commodore 64 and all-night marathons of Attack of the Mutant Camels._

Charlie ran his hands through his hair and shoved the sleeping bag in the corner along with his clothes that he had tossed aside the night before. He looked around the living room with dismay, Don was exceptionally neat, his normally dust free stacks of Sports Illustrated had been shoved aside to make room on the coffee table for Charlie's laptop and notebooks as he looked over his NSA report.

And now electronic basketball had ripped time from him and Robert Tompkins was here just as he promised… _He doubted very much he'd have the time to change from his plaid pajama bottoms._

Don's house was comfortable, if not slightly bare. There were several boxes still stacked in the corner of the descent sized living room. Most of the posters and photos he had were still leaned against the wall with a hammer and nails waiting patiently on a tool box on a lower shelf of the surprisingly full bookcase. There were text books left over from his older brother's college days: a few criminal law and history texts peppered with _Conversación y Controversia: Tópicos de hoy y de siempre_ and _Literature and Its Writers._ Charlie recognized the golf clubs that were Don's graduation present in the coat cubby by the front door and a white ash bat shoved in the bag for good measure.

The kitchen was equally bland – his brother just didn't have all that much furniture to properly fill the house and Charlie was fairly sure that this wouldn't change, couldn't imagine his brother settling down in one spot for too long. Most of Don's interesting things were kept in the second bedroom, he had poked around in a couple of boxes earlier that morning, after Don had left. There was a blue and orange Chicago Bears foam finger along with a French-English dictionary and other random items that didn't quite make much sense out of context.

Charlie swiped his fingers through his hair quickly and straightened out his Princeton sweatshirt, if anything the gray cotton would at least remind people he was presumably Ivy League smart if not entirely fashion conscious.

Director Tompkins face was distorted through the cut glass in the door, his profile unmistakable under the heavy wool coat he wore. He was a tall man with a deeply lined face, balding on top and looking slightly like Sean Connery.

Charlie opened the door quickly, it was a miserable day with no end in sight. "Glad to see you found the place," he said, awkwardly moving out of the way and closing the door as Tompkins stepped into the foyer. "Don's out most the morning…"

He didn't know how this worked and the moment was much to surreal to be taken at face value. It wasn't James Bond as much as Maxwell Smart. Charlie just needed to change his cell phone for a shoe phone and the Cone of Silence and he'd be set.

"Thanks, Professor." Tompkins shed his off-setting fedora and umbrella at the entryway, rain drops littering the floor, and followed Charlie into the living room. "I really can't stay long. The boys are waiting in the car," he waved his hand towards the door where Charlie could see a dark sedan at the curb. "—Just in and out."

For that, Charlie was relieved for he could almost hear a parental scold for not being a proper host. "Sure," he said. "I've got the algorithm stored on a…" Charlie grabbed the briefcase and opened it, flipping through the satchel. "It's all on the external hard drive and backed up on the…" He started stacking the various pieces of equipment on the coffee table, "You know the applications are really quite interesting…"

"I need it all, Professor," Tompkins interrupted. "Your notes, the raw data we gave you, the hard drive, everything."

"Oh… I, well… Okay." Charlie felt the heat in his face and for a brief moment he was a freshman at Princeton, catching two not-thirteen-year-olds doing much more than making out in the stacks.

At least Maxwell Smart got to burn all his sensitive documents.

He took a few moments more than necessary in placing everything back into the briefcase, hoping that he doesn't look as young as he is, hoping that Tompkins simply won't humor him.

"How are you liking Virginia?" Tompkins voice was conversational and friendly, his attention placed on his brother's stack of books and video games.

Charlie stuffed the last notebook in, closed the latches and held the bag by the strap. "It's probably a lot more pleasant in the spring."

Bob laughed and held onto the briefcase by the small handle at the top, "That it is, Professor. Maybe you'll come back for the Cherry Blossoms." The expression on the Director's face shifted from amusement to something more serious and thoughtful, "I appreciate this, Professor. You'll be in Pasadena if we need to get a hold of you?"

Charlie nodded, "At my parents for the time being." And then maybe a nice apartment close to campus in another few months, after his teaching schedule solidified and maybe, just maybe, he'd try for his driver's license again. "Director, do you need me to work with the implementation…?"

"Charles," he said indulgently. "You've worked with the techs, we were just waiting for the finalized version. Go to California, go surf or whatever you do in Pasadena and we'll take care of the rest."

He let out a long breath and straightened his shoulders, _this wasn't Princeton and he wasn't thirteen anymore_. "You'll let me know if you do need anything else though, Director."

"Call me Bob, Professor." Tompkins slapped Charlie on the back, "We had to call you in the first place, didn't we?"

oOo

It was a windy day with clouds steadily darkening the sky. _It was probably going to rain soon,_ Don thought as he pulled off the gas mask after the white plumes dissipated. Sean Kelly was in charge of this particular training set up and was busy talking to the disheartened group, who must have been so _sure_ that they were going to pull one over their instructors.

_And then, in the natural progression of things, the Cubs would go on to win the World Series._

_Five years in a row._

His sarcasm is not nearly as sharp as the bruise he could feel forming close to his left ankle. The denim there was splashed with the green paint from a lucky shot that must have come off during the foray; he remembered _something _brushing his leg, that something pissing him off and his vision going white, then the fury directed at taking down the shooter.

The rookie agent had been a tall guy, early twenties. Someone Don hadn't met yet. _Someone who wanted nothing to do with him now._ The fury had shaken from him as the frightened kid's face was realized from the illusion of a history too recently peppered with men and women to evil to exist in normality.

Don apologized and then watched as the guy walked off the tackle and the girl who had been assigned the purple paint pellets handed him tissue for his bloody nose. The yellow, pink and blue paint pellet Mod Squad had all taken a step back when he walked by.

He wasn't sure, but the phrase _walk of shame_ seemed oddly fitting then. Or maybe the exit Gary Cooper took at the end of _High Noon._

Don preferred the latter.

The locker room was layered with musky sweat and sports centered conversation as he made quick work of showering and changing into fresh clothes. Don shoved the damp and paint splattered clothes into his gym back and stole the ice pack out of his neighbor's half-eaten lunch and firmly ace bandaged it in place, figuring two out of the four requirements for the R.I.C.E. treatment were better than none at all.

He looked at his watch again; it was later than he originally thought, but there was the advantage to having an absentminded professor-brother who was constantly present-minded in Shiny Number Land (Don named that glazed look that his little brother wore more often than not when he himself reached sixth grade and capitalized it in ninth, after Charlie chose Happy Numbers over the jungle gym and kickball) and who would no doubt be hutched over the notebooks that he found scattered on the coffee table near his brother's sleeping form on the couch early that morning.

The ice pack had a little polar bear holding a dripping ice cream cone on both sides of the white plastic and two dimensions be damned, there was something that was steadily gumming the layers between the elastic bandage and his sock and skin. He conceded that it was very possible that it was the blue frozen goo, and not a more ridiculous explanation.

His locker was located towards a far corner where there were fewer working lights and combination locks on the metal doors. It was less attractive and no doubt where they put those lower on the seniority scale. Don had lived through worse and wasn't complaining, yet as he worked his way toward the exit and clean, sweet smelling air, conversation dampened and could feel the eyes at his back. He glanced back quickly and knew that paranoia served him well as heads turned away and a stilted hum filled the overly thick atmosphere.

Fugitive Recovery had given him a name, was regarded as something as an expert in the field, that he knew. What he also knew was that he and his FR colleagues were viewed as half-wild mercenaries the likes of which were found in the Mos Eisley cantina rather than the standard agent that was more commonly found in the suit-wearing agency.

_Han Solo's duds beat out the Rebellion's crazy orange flight suits any day of the week._

He made quick work of the maze of halls to find that the rain had slowed to a few erratic drops as he crossed the parking lot, to his Wrangler. The echo of the outdoor gun range hit his ears as he swung the gym bag over the driver's seat, letting it fall behind, only to be blotted out as he started the truck and left the training center far behind.

oOo

They had driven into the City. It had been an incredibly agonizing crawl northbound on 395 as they skirted pass Annandale and Arlington and onto Dulles. The late lunch hour traffic had been unforgiving and Don knew that it would only get worse from there on out. Charlie's flight to the West Coast was scheduled to leave early that evening, leaving him with an after work special to drive through.

_Though he did have his badge if he ever felt the need to go more than ten over…_

The ride had gone by in relative quiet, Charlie's phone had rung five minutes after they passed the last gas station in Dumfries and he had been on it ever since.

Charlie talked in a quiet tone that, if it had been anyone _other_ than Charlie, would have had Don's spidy sense pinging for suspiciously shifty behavior.

As it was, he heard his brother mention a certain correlation matrix he was working through, then tuned him out in favor of a radio station devoted to Tom Petty and the Ramones.

The last couple of days had gone by quickly enough, in a rather awkward sort of way. It had been a pleasant discovery that his brother had learned to make small talk. Of course, it had been mostly limited to how the cheese could have been more evenly distributed over the peppers and onions had Paul Revere's Pizza bothered to use Girko's Circular Law.

It was easy to see that Charlie still employed his nervous rambling tic. Or maybe he had just become so use to commanding an audience or even dead silent air, that the professor didn't even realize what he was doing, wasn't aware of the tangents he had disappeared down.

Don had stopped the unintentional filibuster Sunday afternoon, when he challenged his brother to a game of one-on-one in an empty gym at Quantico and soundly trounced him.

It wasn't nearly so violent as that particular afternoon three weeks before their senior prom. Val Eng was a nice girl, but even now Don wondered why Charlie thought she'd go with someone even younger, and oftentimes less popular than most high school freshmen.

He shook that thought out of his head as Charlie sighed and tucked the phone away in his jacket. "All's well on the math front?" Don jibed gently. Charlie's eyes had seemed far distant for a moment and for a second there Don thought of once-upon-a-time hushed talks discussing autism and intelligence tests.

"What?" Charlie's eyes widened and then came to realization, "Oh, that? Some work I did for… I was working on a project and the real life applications seemed to differ than the theoretical calculations."

This was something Don could appreciate. He knew all about how life never went according to theory and most oftentimes adjustments had to be made, plans thrown out the window and improv as important to him as to a cast member in Second City.

"So you got it figured out," Don said. He could feel his brother's eyes on him, Charlie's face fixed in that damn puppy dog look that he seemed to take on whenever he gave advice or approval. "It's good to be able to think on your feet like that."

"Yeah," Charlie agreed.

Don waited for the exposition, the 'variable was suppose to be here but ended up there instead as a direct result of the correlation between x, y and z.' But it never came and Don was at a loss for the conversation that would come next. He pressed his lips together, his eyes wandered over the large sign boards that lined the free space along the interstate.

He hit his blinker and started to merge on the nearest exit. Charlie looked at him questioningly and Don lifted his shoulders in deference to the restaurant signs, "What sounds good, Chuck?"

Charlie grinned and said whatever because anything served in the greater D.C. area had to be better than what Northwest airlines would be reheating on the flight later.

oOo

"Naw… We had them running through exercises in Hogan's Alley for most the morning," Don said as he set the half-eaten roast beef sandwich back on his plate. "Had it set up as a fake bank robbery and hostage negotiation with paint balls, so don't try to tell me that my in-class demonstrations are less cool than yours."

"Your masochists… they like being tear gassed?"

Charlie had been working quickly through a burger and fries, steadily topping it off with a milkshake and coffee, pausing only long enough for conversation that Don intentionally steered away from anything more difficult than high school level calculus.

Time had been good to his brother, Don decided. He had finally grown, looking less little kiddish and closer to his actual age. He was still damn skinny though, like he forgot to eat which Margaret had complained about Charlie doing time to time whenever she called from Princeton. Susan must have kept him fed in England, but as far as having a keeper since moving back to the States… It was probably a good thing for Charlie that he was moving home.

"Don't play stupid, Chuck. It doesn't suit you." It was times like this that Charlie tried a little too hard, came on a little too strong, tarnishing his more appropriate naïveté that complemented his personality. "Nobody likes being tear gassed, but it happens during training. Helps prevent unnecessary force."

He lowered his voice and leaned forward on his folded arms as if he was getting ready to confide a deep secret, Charlie looked eager to know, but there were some things Don would rather not elaborate on. So he lifted the diner mug to his lips and cautiously sipped at his refill. _Tear gas was something he'd rather not repeat._

"When do you start at CalSci?"

Charlie frowned slightly at the change of topic but went with it, his excitement growing as he spoke of his classes, his office, the opportunities for research, "…So Larry's already sent me the calculations to look over and the outline of the paper. Its going to be great working with him again."

Don continued to pay attention to Charlie's ramblings on the periphery as he studied the line of traffic that whipped by the window. He checked the time on his watch again, the diner's clock was off by six minutes.

It was time to send his brother home.


	12. Wind in Dry Grass

A/N – Okay, so there's not enough e's in the whole world to let out the squeal I had over the awesome Don/Robin adorable Spencer-Hepburn thing they have going on. (Though I'm still a little in shock over the season finale.) They have somehow managed to surpass Charmita and possibly even the good ship Flienhardt/Reeves (may it live on!) with their cuteness in one episode.

And the fact that Don's a closet film buff who's favorite movie is one of my own… Preston Sturgis would be proud.

I sure know I am.

* * *

"_**I hope you know what you're doing." **_

_**  
"Yeah, me too."**_

_-Leia Organa (Carrie Fisher) to Han Solo (Harrison Ford). The Empire Strikes Back, 1980._

* * *

**Thursday, July 15, 1999**

**Quantico, Virginia**

**Supervisory Special Agents Offices**

oOo

"I'm telling you, man… Seeing Ted Williams out on Fenway and the… What's the word I'm looking for Ty?"

Mark Gallagher slow-pitched the rubber-band file to the lower drawer of the Nixon-era desk and slammed it shut as he leaned back in his chair. The insincerity of his tone was only out-gunned by the kid-in-the-cookie-jar grin and the jazz-hand wave he gave to his sudden epiphany.

"Pride, Walters. I think it's the word pride I'm looking for." His worn Adidas slapped the linoleum tile as he dropped his crossed foot to the floor. "When Martinez took down Larkin, Walker and Sosa in the first it brought Pride back to Boston. Pride to the American League."

Don Eppes nearly did a classic Danny Thomas spit-take, only to be circumvented by inhaling at the last second setting off a round of earnest choke-coughs that left his face red and his throat burning.

"Oh man," he groaned as he let his head hang, pulling in oxygen as quick as he dared. "Gallagher, you are so full of crap. Boston hasn't had pride in the last ninety years, why try now?"

Mark stood up and swatted Don's back lightly with a file in hand before he paused briefly at the door, "Hey, it's better than cheering for the Cubbies or the _Blue Crew_."

"Yeah, yeah," Don said, thinking back fondly to summers spent at Dodger's Stadium watching Valenzuela and later Hershiser and team winning the Series in five despite injuries, despite it being the second string holding everything together.

Somehow that seemed so much more important now than it did at the time.

Gallagher waved off, carting a full briefcase with him, leaving both Don and Ty to finish their work.

"Don't take it too hard, Eppes. Red Sox fans don't have much to live for. Have 'ta take what we can get."

Don tilted his head to the left while raising one brow and warily taking another draught of water, "Yeah, so what's your excuse?"

"Harsh, man," Walters said. "Very, very harsh."

It was late afternoon flirting on early evening as the two men continued working their way through several stacks of tests and papers from their respective NATs. It had become a comfortable routine, Thursdays tended toward the lighter side of classes with the later afternoons free to catch up on grading and any paperwork necessary with the occasional New Agent Trainee stopping by for extra help. Afterwards, he'd usually go for drinks with the other instructors at one of the local bars or maybe go for a pick-up game at the park or maybe the gym.

It was a comfortable routine.

Don could feel himself slowly going crazy.

He picked up the next paper and his red pen, cast a stray eye out the window to the perfect July day that continued to taunt him. He had talked to Cooper the day before. The man was living it up in northern California, not far from Eureka, having just closed his latest assignment.

The conversation did nothing to help his wanderlust.

Over the course of the last several months, he had helped out with several local cases, had been called in on a few fugitive run-downs when his expertise had been needed. That made his Quantico transition easier, gave him something to occupy spare time, as well as keep his head in the game.

Lately though, Don had noticed a steady shift in the special assignments he'd been handed. They were noticeably non-FR related, increasingly so as the instructors pool of candidates decreased. That was fine with him.

Special Agent Eppes was ready for a change.

oOo

"What do you know about Juárez, Mexico?"

Don looked up startled by the respectable-sized cardboard box that landed inconveniently on the files he had spent the last two hours painfully sorting. Pat Collins, a fellow agent and all-around pain-in-the-ass, pulled the lid of the box and let it fall to the floor, knocking over the binders that Don had finished assembling for his probable successor.

He let out a breath, the interruption was welcome and Pat looked intense, almost zealous as he unpacked the contents, peaking Don's curiosity and staving off a reprimand for the inconsiderate mess. Most of the documents were copies, the paper still stiff and white and the fax line on the bottom reading from much earlier that morning.

"Well, it's not a spring break hot spot."

Collins looked up ruefully, his brows pulled together as he thoughtfully rubbed the back of his neck, "For good reason." Pat was a tall man, easily towered over Don by a good five inches. When he bothered not to slouch, good posture earned him another two. "Since ninety-three a couple of hundred women have gone missing and turned up dead, mostly coming to and from work."

Don let out a low whistle. He had heard a few stats and updates in the news over the years. Had even read a few articles when he was down in Texas a while back. But Juárez was south of the Boarder, the Rio Grande, just south by a mile out of US federal jurisdiction.

"Why am I getting the feeling that this isn't going to leave me with warm, happy feelings inside?"

A series of photos fanned out in front of him, three different bodies in raw relief, two women bathed in blood and a third that had been left beyond recognition. Paper clipped to each _Guernica _was a much smaller photo of each victim beforehand: a Tejana beauty with a gap-toothed smile, a serious-faced woman with her dark hair drawn back into a severe pony-tail and another woman who seemed a non-descript version of the other two.

"Boarder patrol has been keeping an eye on the situation for years now. We've helped out when we could, but until recently there has been no reason for us to intervene."

"Until now…" Don repeated slowly. It was a hated phrase, ranked right up there with _little did he know_ and _Don, you're the oldest and you know Charlie looks up to you._ That long ago feeling caught up to him then in that moment, leaving him drained and feeling years older. "What's changed?"

Pat grabbed a folding chair by the back and lifted it over to the desk. He sat down with his massive legs sprawled out and his back bent slightly forward, unconsciously shrinking himself to eye level, "The victims crossed the border, Don. Maria Santos here -" he motioned to the photo of the body in the shallow grave. "-She was found last week. Couple of kids playing soccer…"

Don winced and picked up the picture. It wasn't a pretty sight.

"Yeah, exactly," Pat sighed. "Cops down in El Paso thought it was a single homicide until the other two girls showed up."

"When?" Don interrupted.

"Elena Fuentes on Saturday and Prudence Aguilar Monday. All three were strangled, signs of sexual trauma…"

Collins pulled his chair closer, unconsciously lowering the timbre of his voice, "Here's the thing, Santos and Fuentes look like typical _las muertas de Juárez,_ both never made it into work the mornings they went missing. This new girl, Prudence disappeared during a night out on the town with some friends. There's something else–" Another photo, a close up of the girl's torso with her yellow tank top torn revealing dried blood and deep scratches, skated to the top of the pile. "She's got a superficial heart carved right here," he said, pointing an inch or two lower than her left shoulder. "And a blue silk scarf wrapped around her wrist."

Don could feel his heart quicken, could feel a tight cold fist bury itself deep in his gut. He grabbed the stack of pictures, studied the close-ups and landscapes. "You're sure about this. Absolutely sure?"

Pat rocked back on his chair, "Had the ME triple-check it, Don. It looks identical to the Merotti murders."

"You've got to be kidding me," Don stood up, the rapid force propelled his chair back till it hit the wall. He began to sift through the paper work, stopping when he found the coroner's report. He sat back heavily as he read through the details. "Those details were never released to the press…"

"And Paul Merotti's dead. I know, Don." Pat sounded as frustrated as Don felt in that moment. His next words were a mix of reverent sincerity and droll irony, "You and Cooper were the team that took the bastard down. It was legendary. Really."

"That level of detail. The scarf and the…" His voice wavered for a moment. "That pretty much eliminates a copycat." Don chuffed his annoyance at Pat's not so subtle dig, "So we're looking at a partner…"

"A partner's whose gone to ground for almost two years. Maybe figures it's his chance to get in the limelight?"

"Something to make his mother proud…" Don kneaded his head with the palms of his hands. "I just don't get it. All the evidence pointed to Merotti working alone. His was the only DNA ever recovered at any of the scenes. And the girl… Allison, the one who survived. He was the only one there."

"Exactly," Pat said. "That's why you, me and Cooper's going down to Texas. We're going to clean up any loose ends."

oOo

El Paso wasn't the ugliest town he'd ever seen.

The air was dry and tasted like dust and Tex-Mex. The lighting was more sepia and tobacco smoke than it was in Washington. The deep browns and golds of the Chichuachuan desert teased along one end of town with _R__í__o Bravo del Norte_ on the southern edge, hemming in the _tejanos_, _mestizos _and _gringos_ from all sides.

The sky was a wide-open expanse, a pool of blue hazed over with clouds and air so thick he could feel sweat pool down the back of his shirt. The mountains of the Mckelligon Canyon Park dividing the city pressed a lurking claustrophobia that left him feeling jumpy and strangely hyper-aware.

Every time he glanced over his shoulder, there was nothing there.

The Ten flirted with the Border before heading northwest to Las Cruces. He thought a moment of following it west, towards California and Pasadena but he didn't and probably wouldn't even later when he might have the chance.

Don hardly paid attention to the mountains that blurred by, to lawns decorated in gravel and cacti. Instead he changed the time on his watch – he gained a couple of hours and it was nearly the same time it was when he left that morning.

Collins took shotgun, claiming it for his long legs, leaving Don to get cozy with his luggage in the back seat. He didn't ponder time or relativity. He thought instead about a pretty young woman with long blonde hair that draped over her left eye like Veronica Lake's. She had been laid out, looked like Sleeping Beauty waiting for Prince Charming with a deep purple bruise on her neck and a rusty brown stain soaking the front of her blouse.

The clearing in the forest had been an almost fairy ring, had almost been more Brothers Grimm than crime scene. Cooper had stumbled on to it first, stood frozen with his arms hanging out from his sides, cursing silently. Almost as if he was afraid he would wake or offend her.

Don wished he had.

It had been the same everywhere: the beautiful girl, a wide open space, the blue silk scarf she had been strangled with knotted on her left wrist, a small heart, no more an inch in diameter cut into her chest.

It was a scene out of a freakin' Quentin Tarintino slasher flick and there had been two more girls before it had ended. They had been too late for Diane, but had reached Allison in time, found her at a riverside park, fighting for her life.

Even now, Don could close his eyes and see her bluish-purple skin, the way she gasped and writhed. He remembered shouting, remembered drawing his gun, remembered the moment her head fell to her chest, and then remembered not firing.

Billy had done that.

Merotti had fallen back and Allison, forward. Don raced to perform the CPR as Billy called it in and covered him. He had ridden in with her, had sat with her till her family came, and even lingered a little while after.

He remembered an aunt and a brother. Maybe the guy could was her cousin, he hadn't been sure. Hadn't asked. They had only spoken a few words, the aunt had thanked him and the man brooded in the corner. Allison thanked him months later, after her voice came back and the scar on her chest had faded.

_God, how could it be happening again?_

He leaned back into the seat, his left arm wresting on his briefcase filled with case reports and even his own personal notes that he hadn't officially filed. The brown leather bulged with more details than should exist, the contents keeping the bag heavier than its appearance. It dragged like a ball and chain, weighing down on him more than he cared to admit.

Their ride skirted around the south side of the Fort Bliss Military Reservation on the Ten, going from the east side of the city to the west. Their escort was a few years Don's senior with a large Chuck Norris Stetson and snake-skin cowboy boots. He'd been rather quiet since after introductions at the airport and his posture seemed to say that he had better things to be doing than playing chauffer to out-of-towners.

"You here from Cooper yet?" Pat asked.

Don rubbed the grit from his eyes. They had taken an early flight out of Dulles that morning and he had a feeling he'd be needing more than the one coffee he had before leaving the house that morning. "Yeah, he said he's getting in tonight. Had a few more things to tie up before he left California."

If he knew Billy Cooper, and Don could figure his own mother didn't even know him as well as he did; Billy's loose ends probably had to do more with quality time at a laundromat than anything case related. Not that he blamed him. Fugitive Recovery was not a sweet-smelling occupation.

Pat nodded and started drumming his fingers along the dashboard. Don thought the rhythm sounded a little like the Magnum P.I. theme song but then veered sharply off into something undistinguishable and mariachi.

Don closed his eyes and let the rhythm carry him off.


	13. In This Last of Meeting Places

A/N – Hey all, hope your summers have been fun so far. Mine has been a bit more exciting with Wisconsin being flooded and all. (Never ever want to see freakishly large amounts of rain ever again.)

Wanted to thank everyone who's still keeping up with the story and reviewing it. I appreciate it!

* * *

"_**I'm going to call an entry team." **_

"_**What? Hey and spoil our fun. Man, tell these guys to go cover the back. Let's you and me go in and grab his ass." **_

"_**Well..." **_

"_**You ready?" **_

"_**Let's do it."**_

_- Don Eppes (Rob Morrow) to Billy Cooper (Max Martini). Man Hunt, Numb3rs Season One._

* * *

**Friday, July 16, 1999**

**El Paso, Texas**

**County Forensics Lab**

oOo

The El Paso office felt too small after spending so much time in Washington with large buildings and floors and floors of agents. _Outpost _had a nice ring to it and seemed more appropriate, more wild and loose. Dry heat, brown sunsets and tumbleweed. _The El Paso Outpost _with sheriffs drinking sarsaparilla and cattle rustlers buried with their boots on_._ West Texas almost felt like the end of the world anyways with its strange culture of INS agents and illegals all tripping over each other.

"You are not making me a popular guy around here, Pat."

Don Eppes found himself shoved towards the back of the awkward foursome as they walked quickly through the narrow halls of the El Paso County Forensics Lab. The pace was set by a sardonic-looking, squirrely man in a worn plaid cowboy shirt with pearl button snaps and jeans so faded, the denim was nearly white.

"When I just_ happened_ to let it drop to an old friend that a closed case might be seeing a revival, I wasn't planning on sticking around long enough to give him and his _fed buddies_," he didn't quite spit the words out, but they were flavored with enough distain to make Don feel less than welcome. "— a grand tour of the place. I said _déjame en paz._ But no… You bring me _dos federales más. _"

Rudi Gomez ushered them back into a small back room that was warm with more than the heat of the day. They filed into the room and Don took the last empty seat below the erratically flickering fluorescent bulb by the door. The seats creaked with age and the wheels stuck as Don pulled him self closer to the table. The plastic pseudo-wood puckered around the edges and lifted up from the pressboard with little encouragement as Rudi tossed a half-starved file folder, letting it skate across the surface before it stopped in front of Billy Cooper.

"So what do we have here?" Billy asked rhetorically as he flipped through the pages, ignoring the heat and drama.

Coop sat balanced on the edge of the large table with his ankles crossed and his hands gripping the table tightly. His denim jacket was more faded than Don last remembered, there was a new tear at the front pocket and he felt a little guilty that it had been so long since he had last seen his friend.

Rudi paced in front of the small window cut in the cinderblock as he continued to wave his arms erratically, "_Oye amigo, _I'm in deep _mierda_ here. Lab techs don't call other agencies in. Not part of our job description…"

Don was content to let Collins handle the matter, to handle Rudi. He hadn't asked and Pat hadn't bothered to elaborate more than there had been an interesting trip to Mexico a few years back that had introduce the two. It was a reasonable assessment that the man was close to freaking out, and for good reason. The cold looks and the whispered gossip gave him the sure signs of a major turf war. Rudi had said that the Aguilar evidence was being back-burnered on the case because of his actions and only a fraction of it had come through as he had had time to work on it.

Rudi Gomez was in a hell of a lot more than deep _mierda._

Pat's face was red with sun burn and dripping as he wiped his forehead with a sweat-stained bandana. His normal expression, the one that made Don want to check his wallet for a hand buzzer and his lunch for itching powder, had fled, "I know, Rudi. We've never met before I got that anonymous call bringing us down here."

"_Gracias,varón._ But it's too late for that. Rosa's already started on your burritos."

"Well, at least there's that."

During the discussion, Billy pushed the folder towards Don, pointing to a few underlined portions. "Our girls don't fit the original profile," he said quietly. "Merotti liked business women."

Rudi broke his heavy look from Pat to elaborate on Billy's statement, "One of our girls went to the U of T here, Prudence Aguilar. Elena Fuentes worked at the public library not far from _la Universidad _and Santos..." Gomez spread out a map of El Paso on the table, pointing out the campus and the library. His index finger steadily tapped on the site of the Providence Memorial Hospital directly to the south and east of the school. "—She was an illegal, worked at a little taco stand right across the street."

"The El Paso campus in a pretty big uproar then?"

It was a fair enough question and Don knew what Billy was after: what data had been released, how the locals were handling the situation, how they could further stop from upsetting the china shop. Cooper's attempt at tact was rebuffed and Don was glad that he wasn't the recipient of the _"Madre de Dios, these were the best you could come up with?"_ glare Gomez shot to Pat.

"Come on, man," Pat said placatingly. He held his hand over his mouth and said in a _sotto _voice, "You'll have to take it easy with him. Rudi doesn't really like people."

Don snorted and said, "Way to make the right career choice, buddy."

"_Dios mio," _Gomez muttered, looking for once more tired than pissed. "Okay, so yeah they had their candlelight vigils for Aguilar but we haven't held up a big sign to say 'hey _amigos,_ we have a possible serial out on the loose.'"

"It's confirmed now."

The door swung open and hit the back of Don's chair. Had the wheels actually worked the way they were suppose to, Don would have slammed into the edge of the table harder than he did. As it was, Eppes could feel his hackles not so much rise as come to attention as he pushed back a bit to regain his territory and breathing room.

"Seems you started the party without me, Rudi." The interloper said as the air changed in an instant to from semi-friendly bitching to an all-out posturing on Gomez's part. "Detective Natalie Dirda," she said as she closed the door, trailing with her a heavy scent of ligero tobacco that was dry as her humor. "Has he told you the world's gonna end next?"

"Nah," Pat said. "He's just playing detective till you got here. Pat Collins," he said affably as he stood, offering his hand. "These are Agents Cooper and Eppes. They were part of the task force that caught Merotti."

Both Don and Billy shook hands with Dirda in a round-robin fashion that looked strangely choreographed, ridiculously formal and somewhat redundant as they all took their seats, again.

"Got the DNA results from Prudence Aguilar and they're a match for what was found on Fuentes."

Rudi Gomez kicked the foot of the table and grabbed the lab report from Dirda's hands, "We would have known this sooner if we, _ya no sé,_ had more than two people running the DNA analysis."

"Nothing was found on Santos?"

She shook her head, semi-apologetically shrugged and then tipped back in her chair, "No DNA was recovered from the body, bastard must have used a condom and she didn't fight back. Maybe knew the guy. There were no drugs in her system."

Detective Natalie Dirda was small girl – _woman _Don inwardly corrected. She looked so goddamn _young_, like some kid who should be more worried about spring break and winning the wet t-shirt competition than a pile of DB's. Don couldn't figure if she'd found the fountain of youth or had friends in extremely high places.

He was just about willing to put his money on the mountain.

The chair came back down almost soundlessly, "What do you have for me?"

At that, Don felt a rush of indignation and could read the same thing in Billy's stare as if both of them together could melt the detective to her knees and have her throw the case jurisdiction at their feet. They weren't there to play Detective Dirda's errand boys. They had put more time, effort… They had _seen_ things, _done _things, _damn it_ that gave them rights she did not have.

It was an instinctual thing, the staring competition and eventually Natalie shifted in her chair as Rudi cleared his throat. "Oh fine," she said, her voice low and angry. "Look, I know I'm the B team here. Hell, more like F team if you want the truth. Everyone in this damn department thinks I'm a narc or a frickin' cheerleader and now that this 'garbage run'…" She used quote fingers to show what her superiors thought of not only her but of the situation in general. "-- has turned into something _worthwhile_," finger quotes again. "Nothing or no one is gonna take it from me."

Don still felt like asking her when her curfew was, but could feel a certain level of, if not respect, at least an understanding rise at her outburst. Billy grinned and the tension eased even more as Rudi asked if they were done pissing on each other and could get on with the case.

oOo

Agency partners tended towards a kinship that was closer to marriage than a typical friendship. It was the result of long hours spent together on the field, days and nights filled with seeing someone at their absolute worst and sometimes their best. Trust was borne from trusting the other to have your back, to knowing that peppers and onions were acceptable pizza toppings while sausage could never cut it, and only calling in emergency medical contacts if there was a flatline or a fairly good to middling chance that bleeding out was how the story was going to end.

It had been a while, but as Don quickened his step to keep in time with Billy's longer stride, things settled back to the incredibly familiar rhythm of a year ago. They had split up, Collins with Dirda and Cooper with Eppes and Rudi Gomez all by himself at the lab to compare samples and test results between the old and new cases.

As they headed out, Don could have sworn he heard Gomez hum that Three Dog Night song.

"So do you suppose she was born with that stick up her ass or is it the job that made her that way?"

Billy's drawl had only deepened the longer they had been in Texas and Don found it funny that it hadn't even taken a full day. "Dirda?" he asked. "There's worse out there than her."

"Yeah, I know," Cooper finally said. "It's just… This is crap and we all know it. Normally, I don't mind fighting over who has jurisdiction. But this one…" He waved his hand in the air instead of verbally finishing his thought.

Don nodded, both in agreement and understanding. This was a case that neither of them had an easy time with and had a hell of a time getting over. Not that one ever really got over these sorts of things.

He headed to the front door with Billy stepping slightly behind. They hadn't talked strategy, but had fallen back on old patterns where Don would do most of the talking and Billy would provide the (potentially needed and slightly menacing) "encouragement."

It was shortly after five in the afternoon with the heat of the day tapering off and a southern breeze pushing it off towards New Mexico. Laredo's wasn't exactly an upscale club, but it wasn't a dump either. It looked like a typical college hang out, something like Don had hit up when he was a student at UC – Santa Cruz, with its worn paint and broken brown glass pressed into the sidewalk cracks.

Don pushed through the heavy wooden door – it came across as looking like an old cantina, into a large hazy room. The interior was decorated with sombreros and woven rugs, the tables and chairs were all brightly painted and mismatched, like the stains on the walls and the heavy nicks and wear present on the surfaces. The smell of cigarettes and beer left him with a dirty unwashed feeling.

There were a few patrons tucked into the corner booths and a few stragglers at the bar. The bartender gave the two of them a nod of acknowledgement with her gray, tousled head before refilling a heavy glass stein for the man picking through a bowl of nachos in front of her. She mopped up the spill, almost non-existent flecks of foam that slopped off the lip of the mug.

"What can I get for you boys?"

Don leaned onto the bar on the far end, closer to the kitchen and further from eavesdroppers. "Looking for who's ever in charge here, ma'am," he said as he let his badge drop open enough for her to see.

"So polite." She dropped the towel in her hand to a basin behind her and walked around the bar, subtlety directing them towards a back door labeled _oficina._ "I guess I'm who you're looking for until Diego gets back." She motioned for them to take a seat, joining them on the visitors side of the large desk by slumping down on a bench against the brown-washed stucco walls.

"Diego's the manager?" Billy asked.

The woman was tall with long steel-gray hair with a certain, if not grace, then a calm authority as she regarded the two of them, "Diego's my husband." There was a small wrinkle of a smile, "He likes the book-keeping and the business end of things. He's supposed to be back soon. Cash run."

"So Mrs. Diego," Don started.

"Anne Velasquez," she replied. "Had no idea the Feds were involved. You're here about the girl."

"Prudence Aguilar, yes."

She crossed her legs and rested her folded hands on her knee, "Already told the detective everything I know. It was crowded, don't think she ever made it inside."

"I've read your statement," he said. "I was wondering though if you've seen anything suspicious lately. Anyone loitering around the back, any customers acting out of the ordinary."

Anne shook her head, "No, it's been quiet. More so than usual. We only just reopened yesterday and last night's crowd was small compared to what we normally see on a Thursday night."

_Thirsty Thursday_, Don thought. "Would you mind if we took a peak around back?"

"Help yourselves," she said. "The sooner this is taken care of, the better." She stood and ushered them out of the office, "If you take the hallway down to the end, it'll let you out in the back. Diego will take that entrance anyways when he gets back."

Don and Billy gave their thanks and their goodbyes before they took the dank hallway towards the outside. The police tape had disappeared from the alley on the left side of the building where Prudence Aguilar was found. Evidence was gone and the trash bins were nearly full again, a few wooden pallets were propped near the cement stairs of the club's rear egress.

Billy paused at the bottom of the steps, carefully turning a three-sixty and taking in their environs. He started walking towards the dumpster just as Don's phone rang.

He stopped at the top of the steps, keeping his eyes on his partner and the wide open alley. "Eppes."

Cooper picked up a long piece of wood that dangled off a pallet and used to it poke around as Don cocked his head to the side, "Slow down, Rudi. What's going on?"

"_We've got a match, varón. There's a DNA match between our guy and Merotti's last girl, Allison Fairbanks."_

Don froze at that and his sudden change in posture grabbed Billy's attention. Cooper mouthed 'what is it?' but Don waved him off as he continued to listen.

"How the hell's that possible, Gomez?"

"_It's not an exact match, think immediate relative. Does she have a father or a brother?"_

"Yeah, a brother I think." Don could feel his heart rate speed up as his brain went into overtime. "Should be in her file. Check it out and see…"

At that moment, Billy shouted for Don's attention. Rudi's words faded into a frantic buzz as Don took the stairs with his hand firmly on his gun and stopped abruptly when he saw what Billy was pointing at. Cooper already had his cell phone out, calling for black and white back up as well as Collins and Dirda.

An older man lay slumped between the brick wall and the dumpster, cold cocked to the head with bruises on his face and arms. Don swallowed back the lump in his throat as he turned quickly to see if they were alone in the alley or not.

"_¡__Me estás cabreando, amigo!"_

Don pulled the phone from his ear at Rudi's shout and returned the barb with his own irritation. "Listen, Gomez. We've got man down here at Laredo's. Looks like its Diego Velasquez. See if you can pull phone records or a home address on our guy. He can't be too far from here."

With that he hung up the phone and stood guard as Billy knelt by the downed man's side.

"He alive?"

"Got a pulse," Billy said as he wiped his hands on his jeans. He gently probed at the bloody bump on the man's forehead, "Stopped bleeding, couldn't have been here too long though."

They could hear the sirens in the distance draw closer as their investigation took on another dark turn.

"What did Gomez say? We got a name?"

Don squinted as the sun seemed to hit just low enough to fill the alleyway with a burning light. He sighed as he spoke, "We got a match between the perp and Allison Fairbanks. Rudi thinks her brother or something."

"Son of a bitch," he breathed. "How the hell?"

"I don't know, Coop," Don finally said. "I just don't know."


	14. Such Deliberate Disguises

A/N – Oh gosh. I've done it. I'm one of _those _writers. You know the ones. They start a story and never finish it. They're the bane of fan fiction and then you end up with school plays and the Mystery of Edwin Drood and audience participation that just never ends well.

If you can believe it, I've been working on this chapter for months. Seriously. Really. I have. And yes, my nose has always been that long.

So please accept my apology and I promise to do better.

It's my New Year's Resolution.

* * *

"_**I think my eyes are getting better. Instead of a big dark blur, I see a big light blur." **_

"_**There's nothing to see. I used to live here, you know." **_

"_**You're going to die here, you know. Convenient."**_

_-Han Solo (Harrison Ford) to Luke Skywalker (Mark Hamill). Return of the Jedi, 1983.

* * *

  
_

**Friday, July 16, 1999**

**El Paso, Texas**

**Laredo's Cantina**

oOo

The sun was holding out for a few last desperate minutes, extending scant tendrils of light to the fast changing night sky. The natural effect was ruined by harsh mag-lights and the bouncing rhythm of the blue and reds from the patrol cars. Police lines were re-established and there was a steady thrum of voices that danced over Mexican polka several bars down.

"Damn, can't they play anything else?"

Don Eppes was draped almost casually over a chair, his arms folded on his chest and legs spread eagle because, according to his mother, he never learned to sit properly. He was finishing off his second water bottle and a _burrito pollo _and stood up to set the plastic bottle in place with the other empties that had formed an eclectic line-up on the bar.

After setting the perimeter, after canvassing the alley and nearby blocks for intruders, a clammy heat soaked though his shirt and the grit from dumpster diving took its toll. He scraped at a suspiciously dark stain on his knee and then wiped his fingers on a cleaner spot of denim.

It felt damn good to be back in real action.

Not much more than an hour and some change had passed since Billy found Diego Velasquez out cold behind Laredo's. The bar was once again closed for business and turned into a somewhat impromptu command center with a large map of El Paso spread over four tables that had been pushed together.

"Respect the local culture, man," Billy Cooper said as he stuck his phone back on his belt. "Nothing like a little _Tejano – conjunto_ to get a party started."

Don shook his head sadly in reply. He and Cooper had never come to terms musically. Billy had an unhealthy obsession with Selena, _Los Super Reyes _and all things _cumbia_ while Don preferred Bowie, The Clash or Creedence.

"There's no helping you, buddy. You have no taste at all. Bet you even liked the new Star Wars."

"Hey, Natalie Portman's _hot_."

"Yeah," Don laughed. "Like that makes up for all the other crap Lucas…"

Their banter was interrupted by a loudly cleared throat, "You boys should take that show on the road when we're done here." Detective Natalie Dirda set her hands at her hips and gave the partners a long suffering look. "Gotta catch a murderer, remember?"

Cooper straightened his lazy pose. "Oh, is that what we're doing here? Did you know that, Eppes?" Billy asked almost earnestly. Don shrugged and decided he'd rather watch the fireworks than light them. "I wish I woulda come prepared for that instead of the two-for-one margaritas."

"Margaritas," Dirda stepped right up to Cooper as if she was ready for a fight, "Amaretto sours, Fifty-Seven Chevy's… Sounds about right for a guy like you."

"Oh," Billy said, closing in till he was nose to nose with her. _Nose to forehead anyway._ "You want to know what's right for a guy like me…?"

Don knew Coop, knew he wouldn't go too far, usually. But now there was a manic gleam in his eyes and a similar reflection in Dirda's that was closer to _Lethal Weapon _than _Moonlighting_. The fallout would be, at the very least, interesting; at worst, something along the lines of Monty Python and Red Dawn.

If he was lucky, maybe they'd do a silly walk.

But then again, he saw at the way Billy was looking at Natalie and the way Natalie was looking at Billy, he wondered how he got cast in the Bob Hope role in this demented version of _The Road to El Paso._

In the original _Road To_ movies, Crosby and Lamour would sing a duet and fall in love chastely with Hope throwing out funny one-liners. This time around, he wouldn't have to worry about finding the time to break the fourth wall. Instead, he'd have to either keep the two apart or shove them in the backroom to _discuss_ their differences.

And that was so far from being the Ministry of Silly Walks that Don had in mind so therefore refused to contemplate the possibility.

"Hey, kids?"

Don was met with twin Glares of Death and synchronous outraged _"What's?"_ that he refused to take personally.

"Come on, guys." He was a little more than irritated and slightly impressed at the faint Han and Leia routine at this point. But he still got the feeling that he might end up babysitting here which never ended well for him since the last time he had to watch Charlie, he had to buy off his entire baseball team with ice cream to keep his little brother's after school special of Pasadena via the bus system quiet. "Coop'll get you a rose and take you to the prom later."

Their expressions were not nearly sheepish or apologetic but they both backed off and made an effort to look more professional than they had been moments before. Something still lingered in the air that urged Don to duck and cover though.

"So whaddya got, Dirda?"

She gave a tired sigh and brushed back a few stray blonde tendrils that escaped from her sloppy ponytail. "Not nearly enough. Three dead women, two of which were raped by the same man. A man," she continued to summarize. "A man who is somehow related to the last Merotti vic."

Natalie lifted her left eyebrow, "Care to finish the punch line, gentlemen?"

"Collins spoke to Diego Velasquez," Billy offered. "Said it was some stupid kid who wanted his money bag. Idiot decides to rob him _after _his deposit run though. Gave Velasquez a concussion for his trouble."

"Unrelated then," Don said as he rubbed his hands over his eyes. God, he was tired and rubbery with jet lag. Had been up since three and it was already going on nine in a different time zone from where he started. "Or at least, unlikely to be related."

"That's what dear old Patty was thinking," Billy agreed. He rocked on his heels before grabbing a chair and slumping on it. "Said the kid was fifteen or sixteen, a fresh over-the-border illegal looking for some lunch money. Diego's a little shook up, but they'll release him in the morning."

"They've got a bolo out on the kid," Billy shrugged. "Fat lot of good it'll do locating a random Mexican kid wandering the streets of El Paso."

Natalie sighed, "Well, I guess let the games begin."

oOo

Over the years: the keeping-himself-entertained-while-Charlie-wowed-the-world years, the college years, the baseball playing years, the _On The Road Again_ years, Don Eppes had begun a running tally of his favorite and not hotels that he either had the misfortune or good luck to stay with. It was a fairly comprehensive list, though it was missing entries from Hawaii, Alaska, Mississippi and most of New England. There were Motel 6's, Howard Johnson's, Day's Inn and an assortment of the kitschy and the crappy with names like _The Last Round Up_, _Stars Falling on Alabama _and _It Happened One Night._

He wrote a ten page letter home with the stationary from the last place after a three day baseball tourney to send home to Margaret since his mother has had a thing for Clark Gable far longer than Don could ever remember.

So most of the eight and a half out of ten pages were stick figure baseball players detailing the Ranger's incredible victory over the Sacramento River Cats with a stick figure holding a stick trophy like a stick figure Simba over stick figure adoring crowds which ended up looking a lot more like a demented Calvin and Hobbes cartoon than an actual letter. But Don's artistry had trumped one of Charlie's math papers off the refrigerator, so he had no complaints.

He was also man enough to admit an occasional bout of pettiness.

Tonight, he looked out over the sea of El Paso lights from his place on the bed from his third floor room on a hill. The duvet was a cheap polyester plaid and the pillows were a little flatter and lumpier than he preferred. But after his shower and food, the world was looking up and he felt somewhat human again.

It was past nine by the time he left Laredo's. Billy had given him a sly wink and peda-conferenced back to the squad car with Detective Dirda where she planned a field trip for the two of them to obtain a warrant on Allison Fairbanks phone records. That left Don the truck and so he took off for _The Starlite Ranch Motel_ and hunkered down with club sandwich, coffee and old case files for a night of research.

Don nodded his head, his attention drifting slightly from the papers stacked haphazardously by the flattened pillows and rumpled bedspread as he bent his neck to the side till he felt a satisfying pop and then tipped his head back the other way.

He spent the first hour reacquainting him self with the basics of the case, refreshing the details he knew that had been lost over time. If their current quarry was working off of Merotti's knowledge and game plan, there could be something he could be easily forgetting or disregarding in importance.

Allison Fairbanks was more of a mystery than he remembered and the most important piece of the puzzle he knew of right then. Her file read like a familiar book he hadn't looked at in a while. (It bordered on the Titanic because he knew how it started and was there for the ending, but the in-betweens were sort of fuzzy.) Her parents were gone. Father was killed in a car accident her sophomore year of high school. Her mother was long gone by her fifth birthday. Allison ended up with her father's sister, a Lena Roberts and her family: cousins Ruby and Katherine and uncle, William.

She was a twenty-five year old super senior at DePaul University in Naperville, Illinois at the time she was kidnapped two years ago. There were average grades and an internship at the local paper, a few intramural sport teams she was involved in. Nothing, though that marked her as something as other than a random target.

No male cousins, no listed brothers… Where was the map with the big X marks the spot?

As he looked through the old case photos, he mused that Allison Fairbanks was pretty in the same way that he found Meg Ryan pretty; which was saying a lot and not very much at the same time, since he's had this thing for brunettes from the moment he saw a Shuli Natan concert on late night cable fourteen years ago.

(Don has never been much of an out-right Zionist, but he _cares._ He has heard the stories, seen pictures, is tied to a history he tries to comprehend while his mother has always handled May Fourteenth as a small scale Fourth of July. And as far as Shuli Natan goes… Any woman who can sing like that, look like that, and can handle themselves the way he knows that IDF personnel can, ranks right up there between Lara Craft and Marion Ravenwood.)

He pulled up the National Criminal Information Center database which could be as fickle as Val Eng at the Homecoming dance. It was great when it worked and not so much when it didn't because it depended on linking all federal, state and local crime information together; and while it was better now than it was two years ago, it still wasn't perfect or completely reliable.

He started a search on Allison's mother, Rachel Fairbanks, maiden name: Jerome. It was possible the woman completely went off the grid, it was possible that she changed her name and had more children and that he'd never get anywhere because they went by Lewis or Davis or even Jason Bourne now.

Don could feel his attention begin to waver as the progress bar slowly increased in percentage across the screen. He turned the tv on for background noise and flipped through the channels till he hit a repeated airing of Wayne Gretzky's retirement party back from the past April and turned down the volume low enough so he could still hear Bryan Adams eulogize the man in a bastardized version of 'O, Canada.'

(He'd be lying if he couldn't admit it was a little like watching _Brian's Song_. The retirement was a little like finding out that he was too old to go back to Neverland since he'd gone to more Kings' games when Gretzky joined LA after The Trade than he could really afford as a high school senior and then throughout college and coming home on whatever weekends he didn't have to play ball. Because while he may have the market cornered on the seventh inning stretch, his heart would always be on the ice.)

God, to go out with no regretzkys. That was the way to leave the game.

oOo

He woke to the smell of something disgusting that vaguely reminded Don of the time his Dad tried making flan using tartar-_Friday-night-fish-fry_-sauce instead of _cream _of tartar that left him and Margaret laughing for _weeks_.

Don half hoped that Cooper hadn't pulled out the shaving cream again as his hand flailed toward his nose and the offending odor because it felt like most the time they spent working together involved Billy decimating his sense of dignity and self-respect.

He peeled his eye lids back and glared at the gym sock that was flung at him at the last possible second. "I never liked you," Don said as he tossed the sock back at Cooper because it was too late (or too early) to hear of _supposed _conquests (which they nearly always were) or progress on the case (which, if it was dramatic, he'd have heard before then).

Billy looked entirely too pleased with himself for Don's comfort as he continued to dump out the contents of his duffle bag on the second bed, rifling through his clothes for something_,_ "Your computer's flashing. Thought you might want to know."

Don grunted his displeasure and then glanced at the clock on the nightstand; it was after midnight but not as late as he first thought with the time-zone hopping throwing off his internal clock, and then back at the laptop's monitor which wasn't really flashing so much as stating the search was complete.

"Did you get anything on her phone?" He asked off-handedly as he started scrolling through the results. Allison Fairbanks made her début near the top of the page followed by a Jerome Fairbanks in San Francisco wanted on tax evasion and a Caroline Fairbanks who was a witness in a rico case six years ago, and a few more that gave him second thought about morality, ethics and the state of humanity in general.

"You missed me that much?" Billy smirked as he actively pulled a t-shirt out of what looked like an inside-out knotted mess of a pair of joggers. "Took us a while to hunt down a judge that'd sign off on the warrant, but I convinced the good Judge Winters with my charming personality…"

Don snorted at that and then got another dirty sock in his face for it.

Cooper grinned and continued, "Rudi and Pat are back at the station getting started on them now. And now," he announced because, at certain times, Billy felt the need to fill Don (or whomever was there for the moment) in to his each and every move. "I'm gonna shower and hit the rack."

The flying sock caught Billy off guard and Don said laconically, "Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus."

Because at that time of night, the only real entertainment to be had was whatever exhaustion and punch-drunk coffee hangover insults and jokes they could recycle for the ten-millionth time.

Cooper just rolled his eyes and not-quite-slammed the bathroom door.

Don rubbed his hands over his face and jumped a little at what sounded a lot like an in-bound plane but was really the shower. He ignored his coffee because it was cold and nuking it in the in-room microwave wasn't going to help the flavor any.

Scanning through the next several entries seemed more like an exercise in futility and made him wonder about the effectiveness of the database and quite possibly that it was way past his bedtime. But then he came on a listing for a Richard Travers who had a recent record for possession and assault and battery with a last known address of Anapra, Texas that seemed interesting but unlikely until he did more reading than he cared to quantify and discovered that his father, Hank Travers, lived with a woman named Rachel Jerome.

By then, Cooper had finished with the bathroom and was making a general nuisance of himself by fiddling around with the coffee maker and brewing tea in a way that would make all of England cringe. So Don threw a pillow at him and then shielded his head when it rocked its return.

"You're five, Eppes. Exactly five."

Don was just about to pull out his serious face and tell Cooper that he was worse than Don ever was and oh, look what he found while Billy _wasn't working_, but then Billy's cell rang and he was back-burnered by someone-not-Natalie-Dirda. Cooper started digging through his clothes again, this time reaching for blue jeans, and Don knew that sleep would be a long time coming tonight.

"Once more unto the breech?" Don asked as Cooper pitched his phone down and made a grab for his shoes.

"We few, we _happy_ few," Billy said dryly in reply. "That was Pat. Allison's been getting a series of calls from a number not far from here. From Anapra over the past four years. The town's just down the road."

Don started at that. "Anapra? That's… Crap," he said as a vague thought rang a bell and the puzzle pieces fell together. He pulled out the El Paso map that had been his best friend since they arrived and smoothed out the creases and found the town, tracing his finger northwest along the Ten till he hit Borderland. "Allison Fairbanks has a half brother, Richard Travers. His father and Rachel Jerome's last known is in Borderland."

Cooper sighed, "Well, isn't that convenient."

oOo

It was a very wired band of brothers that gathered in the briefing room at the Bureau's El Paso Headquarters. Pat Collins, senior agent in charge, had the last word and declared once and for all that this was a federal investigation but assistance from the locals would be allowed. With Pat throwing himself in the way of politics and bureaucracy (and Detective Dirda, whom Billy said he'd be more than willing to handle, but was turned down for the sakes of everyone involved), that cleared the way for both Don and Cooper to coordinate final operations.

A junior agent kept the coffee pot full and brewing and a steady supply of granola bars and cookies on hand to satiate the restless natives and agents. Don had a feeling after looking down at his coffee cup and re-discovering the miracle of Chanukah that if she ever decided that the FBI wasn't for her, she'd make a fine hostess at some B and B somewhere.

"Judge Winters still like you at two in the morning?" Don asked a very annoyed looking Billy Cooper as his friend grabbed a couple of peanut butter cookies and harrumphed his greeting.

Pat Collins wore an amused smile, "No, but I think his _wife_ does." Collins was a large man, a hulking giant really, who could intimidate on command but whose true nature was closer to a gentle, overgrown puppy. "She got all Bambi eyes at him and said that this was such a noble job."

"Shut up, Pat," Billy growled without heat. He bit into a cookie and started talking as soon as he swallowed, "Eppes, did they pick up Fairbanks yet?"

"They're interviewing her now," Don said. While Pat and Coop had been getting warrants signed, he had been on the phone with the Bureau in Chicago coordinating a pickup for Allison Fairbanks, who now lived in an apartment in the Near North Side, not far from the downtown. "Kathy's calling as soon as she has anything."

Don paused long enough to take a draught of his coffee and then continued, "I've been looking at Richard Travers' records. Man's pretty unstable,"

Coop gave him a 'yeah, well we all knew that because he's a _serial killer_' look to which Pat agreed because heckling was always more fun in teams. By now, Don knew just to ignore them both because now was his turn to play Zeppo Marx and he'll end up being Groucho again soon enough. "_Mentally _unstable. He's been treated off and on for bipolar disorder over the years and when he served time for the A and B, the docs were talking possible schizophrenia. But by then he paid his dues and got out and hasn't been heard from till now."

"Schizophrenia," Cooper groaned with frustration, because unknown variables like head voices and hallucinations were never fun to account for when planning a raid. "I hate it when they're crazy."

oOo

Almost another hour passed before they had a team assembled and in Anapra and Don wondered if it all too much looked like the backdrop to the OK Corral. There were patches of scrubby grass and whitewashed stones that outlined sandy driveways and ringed around flagpoles. The heat was tolerable now, but the air was still dry and gritty and ridiculous.

Cooper fidgeted in the driver's seat, adjusting his kevlar vest and earwig till he was satisfied. Don had a hand on the Glock strapped to his thigh. It was a heavy presence, comfortable and familiar, and the fact that it's there was enough to make him hyper-aware and ready to _storm the castle_ because he's conditioned that way. But patience has always been a virtue and he had become more practiced in it than he was ten years ago.

Kathy Parris reported in on her interview with Allison Fairbanks before they had finalized their plans. She was a colleague and a sometimes co-conspirator whose mad profiling skills Don trusted on more than one occasion.

"_She's been communicating with her brother for years now, Don," Kathy said. "Richard dropped out of high school and ran away from home when he found out about her and they've been talking ever since. He was there for her after her attack."_

"_Do you think she's involved in the murders? Some sort of revenge thing?" he asked._

"_No," Kathy stated firmly. "She was genuinely surprised. She's known he's had trouble for some time now, but had to finally cut off contact when she told him about her engagement. Allison said he flew off the handle and said that he was the only man she needed in her life and a few other disturbing things along the same lines."_

"_And this happened recently?"_

"_A month ago," she admitted. "Coincidence?"_

_Don sighed, "If only."_

It didn't take much for Don to admit that he was troubled by the whole scenario. It was a little too Shakespearean (or some sort of disturbing cross between bodice-ripper and Vincent Price, which could be argued as being the very definition of Shakespearean) for his comfort. But then again, his job was more rabid-dog catcher than voodoo head man. It wasn't his job to analyze all the weirdos and their motivations.

He just had to find them.

As they waited in the darkness, Don added another piece of Dentyne to what he was already chewing. Cooper had told him many times that Don's gum chewing was an obnoxious habit, but it was cheaper and less harmful than smoking, so he was disinclined to listen to Billy's opinion.

They left the truck behind a set of dumpsters forty or so feet from the low-lying apartment complex. Dirda and Collins had parked down a side alley in the other direction so they left the vehicle quietly and made their way to join them. Billy gave him a sharp elbow to the side as he pointed out a low burning light from Travers' place along with a dark blue truck in the driveway.

_The Rio Grande _apartments were two separate one-story cinder block buildings located on the less ritzy end of Anapra. Richard Travers' unit was located on the eastern end of the northern building. There was one entrance around the front, and a glass sliding door off the back. Collins and Dirda would take the rear while Don and Cooper made the initial breech.

Don could feel Pat's looming shadow behind him as they parted ways after a radio check. He crept up to the weathered door, the gravel softly crunching beneath his feet, whispers of night air giving off a feeling of emptiness and dread. Coop gave him a final nod as he signed that Collins and company were ready in the back and could they just get on with it _already?_

He spoke in a low voice during the countdown, but loud enough that he could be heard by those close by and his wrist mike. On _execute, _Coop struck his foot near the handle on his mark and broke through the door easily enough. They shouted their entrance and crossed the entrance and the kitchen area quickly, clearing through closets and a utility room along the way.

Natalie and Pat worked their way from the living room, taking their time to step over the unnatural amount of newspapers stacked around the couch and along the wall, and sweeping through the rest of the clutter. Pat wryly motioned at clippings from the recent murders and shrugged _yeah, well jackpot._

Voices were coming from another room; a bedroom, Don surmised as he rounded a corner with Billy covering him. There was a short hall with a door on either side, with a sliding door on the wall at the end, which more than likely opened to either a closet or a pantry.

Don motioned to the right, towards the disembodied voices, and swung the door open. Cooper entered first with Don crossing directly behind him. The room was mostly bare save for a double bed covered with rumpled sheets and a television playing a fruit juicer infomercial in the far corner. Billy kicked up the sheet, looking under the bed and shook his head at the nothing that was there. Don motioned toward the (another?) closet door with a quick jerk of his head. Billy nodded and grabbed the handle.

A shiver twinged along his spine and his thoughts strayed for a moment, to back years ago when he first joined the varsity team, when Coach Lofgren told him that he had instincts, great instincts that could take him far because while they weren't quite see-the-future, Don could read people and what would happen with a freaky accuracy. They had all called him Obi-Wan.

Then time un-paused and Cooper threw the door open. The opening was only so much darkness and Don felt, rather than saw, the hulking mass that threw itself at him as tried to aim and fire. He knew he took a wrong back-step-shuffle before he even had his foot on the ground, because _hell _Travers could put Pat Collins to shame and Don was really, _really _sick of being the little guy, and felt himself going down backwards.

He rolled left and knew he lost his gun in the assault that came at him because not only was Travers crazy, he was clinically _insane _and no man otherwise with a sense of self-preservation would have done what Travers was doing now; and God, could he just get out of the way so Cooper could take the fucking shot already?

The man was screaming, Billy was shouting and if he didn't feel like Luca Brasi right then with hands trying to grab hold of his neck, he'd probably be able to appreciate the absurdity of it all. But as much as he loved the Godfather, he didn't want anyone leaving a fish wrapped in his kevlar at his parents' front steps.

It was then he belatedly realized that the thought of Charlie counting dead fish wasn't really funny and that maybe he was running short of oxygen and that maybe he was missing Quantico a little more than he'd have thought.

And that maybe he'd have been better off going to bed after all.


	15. This Is Cactus Land

A/N - Hey all! I'm working on keeping up with my resolution. I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and pray your New Year is even better!

* * *

"_**Don't go all Isaac Newton on me."**_

"_**Sir**__** Isaac Newton."**_

_- Don Eppes (Rob Morrow) to Charlie Eppes (David Krumholtz). Blackout, Numb3rs Season Three.

* * *

  
_

**Date Unknown**

**Location Unknown**

oOo

There are several things Don Eppes was certain about in life, first and foremost was that the game of hockey was proof positive that there was a God and second that He was, at the very least, incredibly awesome. Third was that the Designated Hitter Rule was an abomination to all that was American and to baseball in general, and the rest followed in no particular order:

4. His name was Don. Not Donald or Donnie or any other variation, even though everyone from the DMV to his brother gets that confused, because he was born as his father was going through his Don Corleone phase and his mother was too tired and drugged after childbirth to make any formal protest.

5. That as the oldest, his parents will _always _hold him responsible for his little brother Charlie, even if he's dead or on another continent.

6a. His Glock 23 has pulled him out of more trouble than Billy Cooper has ever been able to drag him into. And for that, he is forever grateful.

6b. His family will never ever, on pain of death, find out what sort of trouble Don was ever involved in. And that includes ever having to try to explain the fugly two-inch scar on his right butt cheek, because he will get rid of as many potential witnesses as he has to.

7. For all that the members of his family are non-practicing Jews, his mother will forever hold the market on Yiddish guilt, though his father can probably run a close second; which explains his de facto closed-mouth policy on pretty much every area of his life because he's tried Jedi Mind tricks and 'these aren't the droids you're looking for' worked much better for Alec Guinness than it ever did for him.

8. And the Dodgers move west back in Fifty-Eight was the best thing _ever, _besides Gretzky moving south, in the _entire _history of Los Angeles; if they could only be bothered to start their way back to the World Series again.

Over all, he felt that he wasn't an overly demanding person. But now, for the life of him, if he could figure out the answers to such interesting questions like 'where was he?' and 'what happened?' and 'how did a piano land on his chest?' he'd be satisfied.

He knew that he was missing something important, now if it was 'remember to file taxes _sometime_ before April first' important or 'Mom's birthday is tomorrow, quickgetheracard' important, between his aching back and the spins he didn't remember drinking for, he couldn't quite put it all together in any way that would make sense.

There were voices buzzing in his ear and something hit him square on the solar plexus and made him gasp for breath. And why the _hell _did it look like Cooper was getting ready to kiss him?

Don tried to roll away and quite possibly say something he knew he'd regret, but something was holding him down and then pulling him up so fast that he felt like he was on the damn Tilt-o-Whirl and he wasn't sure if he was coming or going. Then there was Coop who looked shell-shocked and not in the same way he did after a Cowboys defeat, but was something else entirely. Billy actually looked _serious _and maybe a little worried_._

It was then that Don started to feel a little sorry for Cooper and a lot dizzy and he may have told him that he'd rather be back in Washington, 'cause he only ever got paint-balled in Washington.

And then Billy started hollering about an ambulance just as he passed out.

oOo

"So how many shots did he get off?"

"Two and the damn animal kept coming at him."

"Has he come to at all?"

"Once back at the apartment and once in the ambulance, but he was speaking fucking French or something… If I get stuck calling his parents, his dad's gonna kill me."

oOo

For all that he was a little fuzzy on the details, Don had always been good at putting two and two together, and while he usually ended up with four, he also knew from time spent with one to many math geeks over the years that, on occasion, five could be a perfectly good response as well.

He vaguely remembered… A double-header? He slid into the plate too hard and nearly took a cleat to the head. But that wasn't right, couldn't be right. He never went to a hospital for that.

The way his head was rolling he knew if he didn't have a concussion, he came damn near close. He squinted up until the ceiling came into focus and knew he wasn't in San Clemente. As his eyes drifted over to the monitors mounted on the wall, to the flat desert landscape that hung framed over a stainless steel sink, to the murmur of voices on the other side of the curtain that shielded him from the door…

_El Paso. _

He remembered then in a rush of adrenaline the shock of Travers coming at him, remembered firing, remembered it not making much of a difference and then… Well, that was where it went fuzzy like television static during a thunderstorm.

There wasn't a clock anywhere he could see and he wasn't about to try to turn his head at odd angles just to get the time because his wrist watch was gone in favor of a nearly empty IV. He figured he hadn't been there long – he still had his pants, though his t-shirt was long gone. There was colorful bruising across his torso and EKG leads stickered to his chest.

He had always aimed for memorable, but this was a little ridiculous.

His throat was raw and Don knew he wasn't going to be winning any beauty contests in the near future with the lump on the back of his head and what felt like the start of a scab near his left eyebrow. He worked his jaw a little, sore but not bad, and started to ease himself up off the gurney when a lithe woman with a bemused smile pulled back the curtain, tugging it once again closed behind her.

"I hope you're not going to leave me just yet, Agent Eppes," she said. She pulled the stethoscope from off her neck, changing her look from snake charmer to costume jewelry and warmed the diaphragm with her hands. "I'm Doctor Weismann and," she held a hand up in warning, "I want you to save your vocal cords so just nod your head, okay?"

As she helped him to sit up-right, Don gave her a nod and a wink.

"Overachiever," she smirked as she held the bell to his back and instructed him to take deep breaths as she moved the stethoscope across the four quadrants of his back. Weismann hummed a little to herself and than switched off the heart monitor and began detaching the leads. She worked in silence for a minute or two while Don tried not to grunt when the sticky pads took chest hair along with a topmost layer of skin.

He distracted himself by first looking at the various pieces of medical equipment and then her name badge. Her first name was Claire and that seemed to fit along with her brunette bob and her permanent expression of amusement.

"So wise guy," Weismann finally said, her attention more on his injuries than on him. "I suppose you want to know what the final damage is…" Don nodded and she pulled out a penlight and shone it in each eye because he wasn't miserable enough already. "Your friend started CPR, but you came to right as he was starting chest compressions so as far as the EKG reads, you're fine except for some bruised ribs."

She gently probed the back of his head, "It's not a concussion, but I don't think you're going to want to try anything strenuous for the time being. Your neck is a little swollen from the trauma, so try not to speak unless necessary. And you might want to invest in a couple of turtle-necks so as to not scare the children." Claire gave him an indulgent smile and said, "You'll be hitting up the ibuprofen the next week or two, so take it easy."

Don nodded again and raised his eyebrows in a sort of 'so you're letting me go?' gesture, because while he didn't mind spending time with a pretty doctor, he'd like to know the outcome of this choose-your-own-adventure scenario that he found himself in.

Claire laughed lightly as if she was humoring his deviance and shook her head, "Puppy dog eyes. Very nice, Agent. Like I've never seen that one before." She gave him a critical look and said, "There's no reason for me to admit you, so just as long as you have someone with you the next few days to answer your phone and keep you from running a marathon, you should be fine." She scribbled a few things on her clipboard and checked her watch, "Your shirt was a lost cause but there's a scrub top on the table there you can use. I'm gonna send your buddies in now 'cause they keep bugging my poor staff."

And with that, she was gone.

oOo

Don appreciated the restraint. Or the twenty minute attempt at it anyways.

Pat and Coop's serious faces lasted all of the ride back to the FBI from the hospital until Billy commented on how the bruising on Don's neck matched the color of his eyes and then Don asked if that meant they were going steady and he hoped that Natalie Dirda wouldn't be jealous. Then Billy tried to punch him in the arm but stopped when he realized that Don had already been hurt enough for one day so he hit Pat instead and they all laughed hysterically because that was almost always better than acknowledging eerie brushes with almost certain death.

Billy held open the front door into the main foyer of the field office, cleared his throat and boomed laconically to the afternoon crowd as he bowed slightly and motioned to Don with a sweeping arm, "All hail the conquering hero."

The secretary at the front desk looked up from her telephone and clapped while the others looked skeptical until Pat Collins flashed his ID and then they all went back to their business because everyone in the FBI knew that anyone associated with fugitive recovery was insane and it was always better to just leave them alone until they went away.

Coop actually looked affronted and said rather loudly, "I'll remember this next time ya'll need Marcel Marceau and I to come bail you out." Then started singing _Hail, Hail Freedonia_ badly and ducked an apple that came flying over a cubical wall.

And then Pat shoved them both into the nearest conference room before a lynch mob of angry agents would have serious reason to take them down.

oOo

It was almost like being back in college with a study group with the cups of coffee and random scattered papers half-tucked in folders and under laptops. Though usually, Don mused, in college there were a lot more pretty girls in whatever study group he went to. And most of them liked to bake. And he remembered being okay with cookie chauvinism.

Glancing briefly at the sad-looking blueberry muffins that even Cooper wouldn't eat, he decided he still was.

After they had checked in and left the Bureau the night before, it was late enough for dinner so they found a hole-in-the-wall burrito place and proceeded to stuff themselves and drink until Don knew the world was spinning from alcohol and not head injuries.

After he had collapsed in bed later that night, when he was getting maudlin from thinking too much about depressing things, after all he had been through and survived, he briefly recognized the irony of dying from alcohol poisoning after nearly being choked to death. And then he passed out.

He didn't wake up until after eleven the next morning and saw Billy out for the count on the floor and stepped on him as he ran for the bathroom and threw up everything he ever ate in the last decade or so.

Pat showed up an hour later and said he was going to drag their sorry asses down to the station because no way in hell was he doing all the paperwork by himself. Don felt it had more to do with the fact that Pat was more than a little terrified of Natalie Dirda and he wanted Cooper along to distract her so he could get his actual work done.

That's how Don found himself with more than enough to do and contemplating the meaning of life (eg. why the _hell _he was still alive) and the need to marry a woman who could bake really good cookies. And after an hour and a half of discussing bullet trajectories, the odds of the Yankees winning the World Series _again_ and paperwork and complaining about paperwork, Don said that he had it figured since he was unconscious for most of the excitement and that warranted the bulk of it to Coop anyways.

Billy just gave him a cockeyed-look, grumbled a little and while he took part of what Don gave him, still shoved half the forms back and calmly pointed out that he only had to shoot Travers once and so Don deserved whatever he got by sheer number of bullets fired.

Pat said that they were both idiots and wondered how they ever managed to work together in the first place. "Aren't you suppose to be playing Charlie Chaplin right now anyways, Don?" Pat continued. Despite the sincere words and warning, Collins looked incredibly entertained and more than ready to join with Billy in a little bear baiting.

Don sighed a put-upon-sigh and quickly flipped them both a middle finger because that was about as much sign language as he knew.

Billy snickered and went back to typing his report out on his laptop. He was quiet for a few minutes, seemingly engrossed with recounting the events and Don breathed a little easier because maybe they'd leave him alone after all.

"Hey Pat," Coop said, looking up rather seriously. Collins didn't look up, but grunted an acknowledgement. "Would you say that Travers was resting or stunned after he tacked Don?"

Pat looked confused for just half a second and then he broke out with a wide and exceedingly pleased grin, "Oh, I'd say he was pining. Pining for the fjords. He was Norwegian you know."

"Shut up," Don groaned and than seriously considered banging his head into the table, but he had a hangover and figured he'd been brain damaged enough lately. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew he wasn't firing on all cylinders if he didn't see the Dead Parrot Sketch coming and with the smirk Coop was wearing right then, Don knew that he'd beat this horse into the ground and run over it until there was nothing left.

"Travers kicked the bucket," Pat continued.

"He is an ex-convict," added Billy.

Don glared at them both because that's what he was supposed to do. "You're both evil bastards," he said without heat, because if they all couldn't find some humor in all of this, find some way to cope… And then went back to his after action summary.

Then Cooper stage-whispered, "Norwegian Blues stun easily, Agent."

And Don chucked a telephone book at him.

oOo

**Wednesday, July 22, 1999**

**Door Key Road**

**Cooper Family Ranch**

oOo

There are other things that Don Eppes was less certain about in life, like why In-And-Out Burger never made it out east. Or how Red Sox fans managed to walk down the street without a meteor taking them out. Or the purpose of the universe and his place in it. Or why things he loved never panned out for him.

Or why the _hell_ he decided that spending his recovery time around people was a good idea.

He sat on a floor cushion with his back against a tangerine-colored stucco wall and his feet splayed out over the cool tiled patio floor. A Roberto Clemente biography rested near his knee along with a sweaty glass of iced tea and a plate of cookies. It was mid-afternoon and five days after his release from the emergency room and two days since Billy's mother insisted Don should come along with Coop to San Angelo.

From where he rested, he could see Billy Cooper splashing around in the kidney bean-shaped pool, with one of his nephews hanging off his back and a dainty niece clinging to his neck like a limpet. Cooper roared and threw himself to the side, submerging the trio for a moment and then three head bobbed up and two children shrieked with laughter.

The boy, Nathaniel, Don thought but it was hard to know because Billy had four sisters and two brothers and an unending number of nieces and nephews that all looked alike because they were Catholic and took 'be fruitful and multiply' more literally than any family Don had ever met. Don squinted and took another look and decided that it wasn't Nathaniel, but could possibly be Matt but most definitely not John, Luke or Mark. Whoever it was though, climbed out and cannon-balled it off the diving board and sprayed a mock-outraged Cooper. Don just smirked and was just a little relieved that he was far enough out of the line of fire.

His voice was still rough, though it sounded more like he was coming down from a bad case of bronchitis rather than nearly having the life squeezed out of him. The paw-like prints had faded and blended into the slight sunburn he had picked up over the last several days of lying around with nothing better to do than let Billy's mother – 'please call me Catherine, everyone does' - who was right up there with Mother Teresa, stuff him silly with barbeque and the best damn chili con carne he'd ever had.

Micah and Catherine Cooper had a large old ranch located halfway between San Angelo and Christoval that lay directly four hundred miles east of El Paso, Texas. It was a straight shot mostly on the Ten that probably should've taken six hours. Don spent most the drive dozing and when he finally looked at the clock, realized it took them a little over four.

Most of the Cooper children still lived in the area, and Don was surprised to see nearly thirty people there when they first arrived. He wasn't going to admit that so much family in one place made him more than a little nervous, but he blamed that on having one brother who spent most of his time masquerading as a calculator and a couple of crazy aunts that made all efforts into avoiding them worthwhile.

There were women shoe-horned into the kitchen chopping vegetables, baking potato rolls and keeping children out of the desserts while he and Billy ended up drinking beer with Micah and Billy's brothers, Jake and Chris, as they grilled ribs, steaks, hamburgers and hot dogs on the patio with more kids with water guns under foot.

It was a ridiculously large welcome with a bit of culture shock thrown in after the abrupt change it was from closing the case with mountains of paperwork and the press interviews that Don missed, partly due to his impromptu hospital visit and partly due to letting Pat Collins and Natalie Dirda fight over who got what credit. In the end, Don saved a couple of newspaper articles that mentioned the FBI's involvement and even him by name. But mostly he was glad just to have the whole thing over and done with.

He sat there for what could have been forever with the sun melting his limbs and the deep peaceful feeling that wormed its way through him as if nothing else in the world mattered since the most difficult question he had in days was if he wanted seconds or not. The sound of footsteps coming from the direction of the kitchen caught his ear along with the rich, dry smell of cigar tobacco.

Don opened his eyes and watched as Micah Cooper eased down into a rocking chair, made a noise of acknowledgement and resumed his sort of nap.

"Not gonna join the kids in the pool?"

"No," Don said as he shifted so that his head was resting back on a smoother portion of the stucco wall and closed his eyes and ignoring the general ruckus around him. He still had headaches, less vicious and persistent, but enough to give him second thoughts about moving too quickly or getting involved in whatever demented version of water polo Coop invented just to have another excuse to throw random eager nieces and nephews in the pool, but he had enough sense of whimsy to enjoy the show. "Billy likes the attention and I'd hate to up-stage him."

Micah gave a bark of laughter and a look that said he knew what Don really meant. The moment of silence grew as Micah worked at his cigar and Don was happy enough to get back to his book until Micah offered him a cigar of his own and while Don thought it wasn't quite the thing his throat needed, he figured he only lived once, right?

"Romeo and Julieta?" Don asked appreciatively as he inhaled. "Don't think I've had one of these before."

"Believe me, Don, you'd remember if you had. A Romeo Number One. Not as good as the Churchills, but you can't have everything," Micah replied as he breathed out a perfect ring of smoke that floated up towards the sky. "Catherine and the girls hate these things and Jake and Chris are on health kicks and won't smoke, and I'm sure you figured out by now that Billy would rather stick to some cheap crap from the gas station."

Don smiled at that mostly because it was true and partly because this was only making his day better. The flavor was rich and smooth and for a slightly irrational moment, Don was mad that his dad gave up smoking years ago.

"You boys did a fine job out there, Don. A damn fine job. Makes a man proud to see what his son can accomplish and I have to thank you for keeping an eye out for him."

Don lowered his head and gave an awkward grin. He was bad at these sort of moments, never knew what to do exactly which just amplified everything to something much worse than it really was.

"Are you gonna go back to fugitive recovery?" Micah asked after a minute.

For all of a second, Don considered it and then shook his head, "No. Don't get me wrong, its great work. It's just…" Don shrugged his shoulders and Micah nodded.

"There's always a new windmill to tilt."

Don shrugged again and said yeah because Micah Cooper actually _understood_ and got a kick out of the adventure stories Billy told him and had career-full of Marine versions of his own and Don didn't quite know how to react to a dad who was okay with probable and certain danger because Marines were almost a cult and the entire Cooper family was crazy that way.

Micah looked thoughtful and continued to work away on his cigar. By then, Billy had hopped out of the pool, telling the kids loudly to go away and terrorize someone else and left them to tease the Coopers' golden retriever with water guns and their freakishly accurate aim with kiddie-sized lassos.

Billy wrapped the towel around him like a blue-and-white striped toga and sat indian-style on the floor while helping himself to the chocolate chip cookies left by Catherine earlier. Despite what Micah had said before, he passed a cigar to Billy along with the cutter and a lighter.

Don turned his wrist and was surprised at how quickly the time was going. He still had a few days of medical leave and figured he'd rather get back to Quantico sooner rather than later. He could call the airport tonight and get a flight out tomorrow sometime and that would give him a chance to take a breath and get his head together before having to get back to work.

He was distracted from his thoughts when Micah yelled in his best DI voice for Rachel and Timothy to leave poor Carlos Hathcock alone before he made them shovel out the horse stalls _all by themselves_.

The kids let the dog be after that.


	16. That Final Meeting

A/N –

Phoenix Red Lion - I have to say the inspiration for San Angelo came from Third Day's song of the same name. So all the credit goes there.

oOo

Dear TPTB –

I forgive you for writing "In Security" because Season 5 is the best season ever (I heart Arrows of Time) and not even Charlie is right all the time.

Sincerely,

PoetTraveler

PS – Why did Don Eppes (formerly Joel Fleischman) have to inherit Maggie O'Connell's dead significant other curse?

oOo

Dear Theoriginalspy –

Thank you for writing recaps so I didn't have to re-watch "In Security." You saved me much trauma and depression.

Sincerely,

PoetTraveler

* * *

"_**Don't get excited."**_

"_**Captain, being held by you isn't quite enough to get me excited."**_

"_**Sorry sweetheart. I haven't got time for anything else."**_

_- Han Solo (Harrison Ford) to Princess Leia Organa (Carrie Fisher). The Empire Strikes Back, 1980.

* * *

  
_

**Saturday, March 18, 2000**

**El Malpais National Monument**

**New Mexico**

oOo

"I'd rather be at the back table of an Italian restaurant right now," Don Eppes remarked wryly as he wrapped his arms tighter around his chest and went back to pretending to intently study a sign posted about the lava tube caves around the park.

It was mid-morning and even with the sun winning the odds against the clouds, the wind drove away any warmth it brought. They had been standing by the visitor's center for the last forty-three minutes and odd seconds and Don was seriously wondering if their contact was going to even bother to show up now.

AUSA Henry Matzelle looked even less happy than Don felt and zipped his North Face jacket to just below his chin, "And have Al Pacino blow my brains out? God, you're a douche-bag, Eppes."

Don grinned and just said, "Oh, Henry." To which Matzelle just glared at him again because yes, Don had beat that horse dead into the ground more than once already. Don squinted at the faded signage and began narrating, "Did you know that lava tubes form when an active low-viscosity lava flow forms a crust and a roof hardens over the lava stream? And that this can happen in two different ways?"

There was another particularly hard gust of wind that nearly knocked the Dodgers ball cap off his head and that had AUSA Matzelle returning to the SUV parked near a set of trash cans and a picnic table. Don took another three-sixty, noting a few visitors: families and the random college student and headed back to the car. He was fairly sure that they weren't going to meet up with their informant today.

Matzelle had the SUV started and the radio going. It was NPR and a talk show to boot, and Don just couldn't force himself to listen. But Henry had turned on the heat and fan to the max, effectively muting the droning voices to a tolerable white noise. Don drummed his fingers along the armrest and while he half-wished he brought his new Sports Illustrated with, he was there for surveillance. And while he didn't want to freak Henry out anymore than he actually was, Don was starting to get a little worried.

The stinging cold was leaving his skin – his cheeks and fingers were thawing and Don wondered idly after windburn. He checked his watch again and though he wasn't going to say it, he knew that Wexford wasn't coming after all because Cibola County wasn't the Deep South where being an hour or so late was considered stylish as opposed to a cause for worry.

New Mexico was barren and oddly beautiful, a place he'd passed through before and never bothered to stay. He had been assigned to the field office in Albuquerque, had a desk in a cubicle and a computer and a place for his coffee mug. _And how weird was that?_ On days he knew he wasn't going into the field, he wore suits and ties and broke in a pair of dress shoes that he even polished from time to time.

He turned down the heat vents and after Henry was done blowing his nose, Don asked, "Could you remind me again how sure a thing this actually was suppose to be?"

They had coordinated the info swap five hours before. Don had been in the middle of his eight mile run and had hauled ass back to his apartment when his boss, and then Matzelle five minutes later, called him to see if he was up for a field trip to a locale two plus hours away from Albuquerque. A fairly high level man in one of the Southwest's more infamous syndicates was willing to go State's Evidence. It was simple enough in theory and a major coup against McGurn. _If it actually worked._

Not that Don thought the whole shebang was gonna head south, but he'd underestimated how cynical he'd become ever since he left baseball behind him.

(It had been a bitter moment and hurt like the end of the world when he figured his name would never be emblazoned on some plaque in Cooperstown, or that he'd never get finger cramps from too many autographs or that he'd never get a shot at the World Series. This was one thing he'd always thought he had in the bag, and it threw him for one hell of a loop when it turned out he was wrong.)

Which was why the four suits hanging in his closet were freaking him out more than he'd like to admit.

Matzelle took a deep sigh, sounding like a leaking tire and rubbed at his salt and pepper beard with a little frustration. He was staring out, past the low-adobe visitor's center, past the undulating hills that surrounded it and Don wondered a little if he was even on the planet _at all_ because Henry was Henry and came across at being an idiot-savant like when he compared the BCS to the Teapot-Dome Scandal because he was still bitter about Wisconsin beating Stanford at the Rose Bowl.

Personally, Don was more amused by Henry than bewildered by him but since most everyone still talked about him in hushed whispers because he used to be Fugitive Recovery, he let the status quo remain and avoided being labeled the crazy one by keeping to quiet looming and drinking coffee in the background.

Henry muttered something and then did what looked like a half-assed attempt to cross himself Greek Orthodox style, "Oh, you know, the usual. The bad guy calls us up and asks if he can turn himself in and then we click our heels three times and end up back home happily ever after with a ticker tape parade with lots of beautiful women throwing themselves at us for bringing about world peace. End scene."

Don smiled at the fact that he wasn't the most cynical man alive and groped for the lever under the seat and leaned back a few inches till he was happily not-quite vertical anymore and tilted his ball cap low over his eyes, "Don't tell me that you've given up all hope, Henry. You'll never make it to the Prosecutor Hall of Fame if you do."

"You're telling me you still think that Wexford's gonna show up today, Eppes? Didn't think you were all puppy dogs and rainbows like that."

Don snorted at that because Henry knew he was anything but and then hit him in the shoulder when Matzelle began to incongruously whistle 'The Sun'll Come out Tomorrow' because he wasn't _Annie_ either.

oOo

"Well, Henry looks about happy as a clam."

Don looked up from his computer monitor and shrugged as Karen Mehra took her seat in the desk kitty-corner to his. "He didn't show," Don offered and then sort of waved his hand because that was all sorts of disappointing.

In the end, he and Henry waited another hour after driving to a different picnic area. Not because they felt there was a mix-up in location but because Don knew the McGurn case was far deeper under Matzelle's skin than it was his own and it wasn't his place to bitch about having to wait for so long with no results.

This was Don's first real RICO case. He had assisted with similar cases before, with tracking down slippery members that were high-tailing it to Mexico or the Caymans or some place far from where consequences would be meted out for actions. This time though, was different. He couldn't just waltz in for the exciting and inevitable cowboy-and-indian chase, which was all sorts of fun, but the stake-outs and the background work… It was a jig-saw puzzle and he had always been good at those.

They had a few of the major players pegged, as well as some of the lower-level scumbags that any criminal organization used. There was Alfred McGurn, head-honcho and self-proclaimed _Don_ of the group. (They hadn't come across an official name for the drug syndicate and some of the other agents involved were having entirely too much fun with pulling references from Scorsese movies and Al Capone.) Middle management was a little fuzzy, as it was with almost any legal corporation. Who was on top as second-in-command wasn't exactly clear and neither were all the third-tier players. There was Wexford and Tommy Delaney and Don had a strong feeling there was a third, or possibly a fourth man who fell on that level, but for now the shadow man remained nameless.

A few low-level drug dealer arrests had been made. Matzelle suspected a few as being puppets for McGurn, but they either didn't know enough or fried their brains long ago on too much of their product to be anything close to useful.

Karen frowned and scrunched her face like she did when she was thinking about something she didn't particularly understand or like. "Well, that sucks," she drawled. "I thought he was really gonna show. Wexford gets his nice get-out-of-jail-free card and we don't bust his wife on back taxes."

Don grimaced. It was a good plan and Todd Wexford seemed to really love his wife enough to take a hit for her by testifying. They had a kid as well and that could have been enough to try to send the man to the straight and narrow.

That it all seemed vaguely appropriate because of the ringing parallels between history and this current case went unmentioned. They all know that Alfred McGurn claimed his grandfather was a Capone henchman, Jack McGurn, the same guy who orchestrated the Saint Valentine's Day Massacre. And while Don didn't know if that was actually true or not, the current McGurn seemed to take great pride in that story.

Don knew when to choose discretion over valor, especially if Alfred McGurn saw himself as Capone which cast him as Eliot Ness. Which he would never ever tell Karen because she'd take _The Untouchables_ references too far and probably end up bringing a baseball bat along with her Sig Saur and he didn't want his partner (and by default, him) getting any more crazy looks than they already did.

Karen Mehra never spoke about what she used to do before she came to Albuquerque but Don figured it was highly covert because she seemed to have an unlimited number of Interpol contacts and he had caught her chewing out a junior agent in at least four different languages. Well, that and she knew how to do very scary things whenever she could find someone to spar with.

"While you were out having fun with Henry, I was having the time of my life flipping through surveillance footage," Mehra said with a flair made more dramatic by the thick kohl lining her eyes. She smirked when he looked at her as if he wanted to roll his eyes and then continued, "I came up about as empty-handed as you. Except," Karen was sitting indian-style and let the wheels on the bottom of her chair do the work as she pulled herself to her desk and victoriously pulled out a neon pink sticky note. "Your _mother _called earlier," she said conspiratorial low voice as she handed him the paper. "She said if you loved her, you would return her calls and then she wouldn't have to embarrass you at work."

That time Don did roll his eyes, "She didn't say that, Mehra. You're over-exaggerating again."

"Be a mensch, Eppes. She may not have said it with her lips, but it was sure in her voice."

Karen smirked at him again and then flipped her long black hair over her shoulder and turned her attention over to her computer. Don let the note fall on a stack of files and then hoped if he ignored it long enough, that it just might disappear all on its own.

But it didn't.

He debated with himself what his mother could possibly want. Evens odds it was just to say hello. Than again, it could be for some math thing of Charlie's. An award or recognition something or other. Last time something like that came up he maybe kinda sorta timed everything right, and called long after it was over and then feigned ignorance and didn't have to go.

It's not that he didn't love his brother, he told himself. It's just there seemed to be _so many_ of these events and the last time he got dragged along to a math reception, Don found himself cornered by an ancient cliché of a professor with a bowtie and a corduroy jacket with leather patches who questioned his position on El Naschie, if it was truly ethical for him to continually publish so many of his articles in a journal he edits and said that the articles in question didn't even really make sense and was turning _Chaos, Solitons & Fractals_ into a freaky Scientology-math cult. _And could his credentials even be verified?_

Don had politely smiled and purposely choked on the flat punch that not even vodka could save and made a mad dash for the door. From there he went to the hotel's bar and hid out until it was time to go home.

Never again, he vowed. Never ever again.

Four hours later, when it was going on six o'clock and Don was just finishing the tail-end of his last report for the day, the pink sticky note had migrated over to a conspicuous spot on the corkboard above his telephone. He grinned and cast a quick look to Karen's still moving chair that she practically sprinted from a minute before and decided that she was too young to have ever been Deep Throat or Mata Hari.

Don tucked the paper in the front pocket of his jeans and grabbed his jacket right after he had locked down his computer. He left a few folders to hide his daily planner and dropped the rest off at Carlos' desk. His boss had been out most of the day and Don wasn't expecting to see him till tomorrow.

As he waved 'good-bye' to a few random people either leaving for home or in a big hurry, Don was tossing a mental coin between take-out or groceries. He wasn't big on cooking and Eighth Street Gyros was sounding pretty good.

oOo

"So I told your brother that the damage wasn't that bad and that he should go ahead and try for his license again but I think after he missed the dog and nailed the fire hydrant, it was just all too much for him.

Don closed his eyes and smiled because it was moments like this that he knew he needed to savor, "There are pictures, aren't there?"

There was a soft chuckle with a hint of glee and _'I can't believe this really happened.'_ "I saved the clippings from the Star-News. I thought I'd put them in his baby book."

"You don't think that Mom's really gonna let you do that, do you?"

"Don," Alan said completely deadpan. "She got them laminated for me."

At that, Don snorted and nearly lost his grip on the phone. He juggled it in his right hand before getting back up to his ear, "Have I told you lately how much I love you, Dad?"

"Not lately, but it's good to know," Wryness colored Alan's tone and before Don could reply, his cell started to ring. Don frowned when he saw the number.

"Hey Dad," he said. "I have to go."

"Of course you do," Alan grumbled. "Be safe."

"I always am," Don replied as he hung up his ground line and answered his cell phone. "Eppes," he answered tiredly.

"Dispatch to 3695."

_And there went his quiet evening at home._ Don took a breath and when he recognized the voice, asked, "Angela what are you doing to me?"

"Nothing you didn't ask for, Babe," she replied.

With that, he grabbed his jacket and was already on his way out the door.

oOo

Don pulled his Jeep up to the curb and noted with no small satisfaction that he beat Karen and her mad driving skills to the crime scene. The black and white sat on the other side of the street with its lights flashing and the whole night seemed to hold an air of south-western noir.

The street-lighting was poor with only one lone pole halfway down the block and Don's flashlight bounced over broken shards of glass and the stray bottle cap. They were off on a far end of town, where the gas stations had re-enforced windows and the sidewalks were heavily cracked and most motels were cash-only and no questions asked.

"We've got to stop meeting this way, Dave," Don said to the patrol man waving him over.

"Agreed." Dave Alexander was a burly man with a barrel chest and a voice like Perry Como, a street cop a year or two out of the police academy. He had to be, Don figured because he didn't have as many hang-ups working with the Feds and had liaised between the groups several times before. "But I think this is something you're gonna want to see," he said as he ambled towards the deep arroyo.

Don knew it was a body even before they made it to the waterline. There was an odor that reminded him of the cut-bait used by the fishermen who spent all day trying for a catch off the Santa Monica pier. He pulled aside some brush that had tangled in the man's shirt and moved his light to see the man's face.

"Shit," he breathed as he realized exactly why Todd Wexford hadn't made it out to El Malpais earlier that morning.

Dave gave him a wry shrug, "I figured I'd let you tell Matzelle. He kinda freaks me out."

"Thanks for that," Don said with quiet resignation as he stood up and pulled his cell phone out. "Thanks a lot."

oOo

There was a time not that incredibly long ago when being around a dead body or a morgue in full autopsy-mode was enough to turn Don's stomach four kinds of sideways. As he watched Henry Matzelle out of the corner of his eye, Don knew that Henry hadn't quite passed that stage yet and it seemed that Karen was taking all sorts of pleasure by pointing out bruises and generally reveling in Henry's discomfort at death and gore.

Just before Matzelle's face could turn a third shade of white, Don passed him the Vick's vapor rub and the man gave him a quiet thank you.

"So how'd he go, Sam?" Karen asked as she eyed a scalpel with a longing look before glancing back at the former Todd Wexford.

"Not nicely," Sam Austin moved his tray of medical equipment so that it was out of Mehra's reach. "Idiot should have made some better friends. He took quite a beating. There's a skull fracture and four broken ribs, one of which that pierced his aorta, but I think it was the broken neck that got him first."

They all winced at that and then Henry took an extra swallow and did a quick about-face and left before anything else could be said. Karen tried to not look amused (rather unsuccessfully) and Don elbowed her because she could try a _little_ harder.

And then Karen raised her eyebrow at him and Don knew that he'd be paying for that later.

"I think it's safe to say that whoever got to him, didn't want him to kiss-and-tell."

Don nodded and thanked him and grabbed hold of Karen's arm and steered her out the door before she had a chance to say anything. "Don't even think it, Mehra," he said good-naturedly. "You know he hates it."

"But Don…" Karen looked up at him and flashed her large doe eyes, looking something like an Indian Ingrid Bergman and traded her southern accent for something closer to Sweden. She clasped her hands over her heart and sighed, "Play it, Sam. Play _As Time Goes By_."

Don just shook his head because they did this routine every time they came to the morgue and it only never got old because Karen seemed to think it was the funniest thing _ever, _and though Don had his doubts, he was game enough to play along.

It was a better distraction than thinking about what they just saw.

Between the morgue and the basement they made up a list of possible hit men. ("Say it, Don. Say _let's round up the usual suspects._" "I'm not Claude Rains, Mehra." "Do you want to be Bogart instead?") And while some of the ideas were ridiculous, most were not.

"Delaney isn't ballsy enough to pull the trigger. He's more distribution side of things anyways," Don said as they rounded the corner to their desks. They could see Carlos standing with his back to them, pacing with his cell tucked under his ear. He turned around under the weight of their stares and waved them over.

"Yeah, yeah… Okay. I'm sending my guy over. Right," Carlos threw a file at Don that he caught south-paw. Don caught the name Wexford on the side before Carlos hung up and started filling them in. "Alright that was Albuquerque PD. They've picked up Wexford's wife and kid and we're gonna sequester them away for a while. Mehra," he said. "I want you to start tracking down whoever it was who hit Todd Wexford." Carlos waved his hand in a vague gesture, "Talk to your contacts. Do whatever it is you do and find this guy."

Carlos Polanski scratched at the back of his neck and took a seat, "Don, I want you to coordinate with the Marshals and we're going to get Leah Wexford and her son in protective custody. We all but know that McGurn ordered the hit and she probably knows who's who and maybe we can get her on the witness stand in Todd's place."

"Sure," Don said. He opened the folder and a picture of the Wexford family slid out. "A revenge thing," he murmured as he studied the kid who was maybe five or so in the photo and Leah Wexford who hand one hand on her son's shoulder and the other around her husband's waist. "A regular all-American family."

Carlos snorted, "Don't knock it, Don. She just might be our ticket for McGurn after all."


End file.
